Breathing Darkness
by Dangerous Bliss
Summary: When Sherlock returns after three years of hunting Moriarty's men he finds London has changed thanks to a new criminal mastermind. He's psychopathic, intelligent, and completely insane. He also happens to be the one person Sherlock made it his goal to protect on the roof of St Bart's three years ago. And he will continue to protect the good doctor, even if he has lost his humanity.
1. Prologue

_"Goodbye, John."_

The words cut right through me, and time seemed to slow as my best friend leaned forward over the side of St. Bart's hospital. There was nothing I could do but watch. If not for the fact he was falling to his death I'm sure it would have been almost beautiful, with his dark coat spread behind him like wings and a look of pure serenity on his face as he fell.

Only a few seconds later, he hit the ground, and my soul shattered.

I let out a silent scream and lurched forward, determined to check if he really was... I couldn't even think the word. I was so lost mentally that I didn't care when the bike knocked me over, I just got right back up and resumed my desperate journey to the man that lay unmoving at the side of the road. There was a crowd of people gathered around him, but I ignored them and shoved them out of my way, finally getting to view my friend. His once bright and calculating eyes were now glazed over, and the blood that still poured from him had formed a halo of crimson around his head. He was pale in a way no one alive could be, but it didn't stop me from checking. I knelt shakily down beside him, and I searched desperately for a pulse, but there was no movement beneath my fingers.

That's when I finally broke.

I felt cold right down to my soul (if I even had one left). The kind of cold that no matter what I did, I would never feel warm again. My face was blank as I stood, and I proceeded to ignore my surroundings as I attempted to process what had just happened. To anyone looking at me, I probably looked indifferent to the bloody scene before me, but they couldn't see what was going on inside my head. I didn't react, there was nothing left of me to create a reaction. My eyes stared blankly forward, seeing nothing, in a way that I'm sure was similar to Sherlocks' in that moment. Some people may have described my lack of reaction as that the event 'hadn't properly sunk in yet', but they were wrong. This event was everything at the moment, and it had stripped me of all my emotions up to the point that I felt nothing. I couldn't.

The small crowd had grown larger with every passing second, and it looked as though someone had called the police as I became partly aware of bright flashing lights. I hadn't moved from my position, and my eyes continued to watch Sherlock as he was taken away in the ambulance. I dimly became aware of the fact someone was calling my name, but I took no notice of them, instead preferring the tranquil solitude I had allowed myself.

What was I feeling in that moment? I asked myself that question, as I wasn't completely certain. My brain was too foggy to think of anything except the image that had been permanently burned into my mind. The image of Sherlock's dead eyes staring blankly into the distance.

I think that's when it finally hit me. Sherlock was dead. Honest-to-God dead. I would never hear his deep baritone voice rattling off deduction after deduction. Never again would I get to see that gleeful sparkle in his eye as he solved a particularly complicated case. I would never get to tell him how amazingly brilliant he was. I would never get to tell him how much he'd meant to me, how he'd saved me. From myself.

It was at that moment I realised something. I would rather die than go back to the same boring, inconsequential life I'd been living before I met Sherlock. That was not an exaggeration. The only thing that kept me from getting my gun out of my trousers and ending it all right there and then was the thought that Sherlock wouldn't have approved. Even in death the man still influenced my decisions. There had to be something I could do, anything to take away the feeling of uselessness. Anything.

"John!" Lestrade had appeared in front of me and had shaken me out of my depressing thoughts long enough to get me wrapped in a shock blanket and bundled into a police car to send me home. If it could still be called that. On the way back I noticed my hands were covered in _his_ blood. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the crimson that now stained my palms, even though the image brought on an onslaught of pain and bloody images from only minutes ago.

Mrs Hudson was crying silently when I was finally brought back to our- _my_ flat, but I didn't stop to comfort her. I continued past her as though she wasn't even there, entering my bedroom and sitting down gently on my bed, in deep thought. I kept waiting for the tears that I was sure were only seconds away, but none came. I didn't sleep that night. Or any of the next three nights. However, I did sleep on the fourth night, as I finally entered the detective's room and slept in his bed instead.

* * *

I didn't hear from Mycroft over those few days, which was just as well. I knew in my heart I predominantly blamed him for Sherlock's death.

I got a few texts from Lestrade, but I didn't answer, so he didn't continue.

Mrs Hudson left on the second day. She told me she was only going for a few days, but I suspected it might be longer than that.

I slept in his bed every night after that.

* * *

The funeral went as could be expected. A few people cried, most didn't. I was not one of the few that did. I heard someone question if I had even liked Sherlock at all. I ignored them. Thankfully, the press were not there, but I doubt I would have cared much if they were anyway. It seemed like I didn't care about anything anymore. What was the point? Sherlock was gone, so why bother?

Some people tried to offer their condolences, but I merely nodded and walked away. Eventually, they seemed to get the hint and left me alone. I seemed to be constantly alone at the moment, just another reminder of what I had lost.

* * *

Three weeks on, I was standing in front of his tombstone. I just stared at it, there was nothing I wanted to say, after all it was only a chunk of rock. I read over the lines on the stone over and over again, as the words refused to take hold inside my mind. I bent down and placed a single white snowdrop in front of the stone that I had picked on the way an stood back to admire it. So beautiful, and yet it had barely had time to live before it was ripped away from those around it, away from those who had loved it.

It was then that my emotions returned in full force, so strong that I staggered backwards, reeling from the shock. I had expected sadness, pain and grief. What I had not anticipated was the raw, hot fury I felt bubble inside me, and I let out my most agonising scream, and along with it all my hatred and anger to the world around me. I began to pace, and let wild thoughts fly through my mind at break-neck speeds, and past my lips in a low growl.

_That bastard!_

How dare he leave me alone like this!

Does he not realise what I've had to go through?!

We were supposed to solve cases together for years to come!

Bloody Mycroft helped kill him!

How could he force me to watch_ for chrissakes?_

Did he not have a heart at all?!

He left me. Alone.

He shouldn't have had to die.

Now I have no one.

No one to save me from myself.

No way to experience the thrill I got when I was with him.

I can't solve cases on my own. I don't know how.

I needed _something_ to keep me alive. Not sane, no, I'd gone past the mark of insanity already that much was clear.

Just alive.

Slowly, a grin split my features as I contemplated something. It was brilliant, really. My morals had gone out the window the moment my best friend had made me watch him commit suicide, so I had no problems with this idea. It would certainly be entertaining. Sherlock wouldn't have approved, but he was dead. He had caused me pain. Pain that had broken me, and had caused me to dissolve into madness. I couldn't take out my hatred on him, so I would do it on the world and people he had loved so much and had fought so hard to protect. I giggled with glee, and skipped away from Sherlock's grave, turning around one last time to blow it a kiss, before continuing along down my descent into madness and revenge.

* * *

**Please review! I love to get feedback on all my stories, and this has been on my computer for a while so I thought I'd upload it just to see what people think! I will definitely write more chapters if people like this one!**


	2. A Shadow of Doubt

[Sherlock]

My hand trembled as I raised the gun and aimed it at the man's head. I tried to keep my hand steady, but even after three years of necessary killing, I still couldn't separate myself from the sentiment John had drilled into me over such a short space of time. The man did not look afraid, and even gave me a grim smile before closing his eyes and accepting his fate. I wasted no more time, and my fingers finally succeeded in pulling the trigger. The cold metal jumped in my hand as the bullet ripped out from the nozzle of the gun and buried itself in the man's head. As he collapsed, my arm fell down to my side and I let go of the gun, both in torment and happiness. I'd just killed another man, but it would be worth it. I would finally be able to go home. Back to Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly... But most importantly, I would be able to return to John. That's what it all came down to. My best, and only, friend. God knows how I'd missed him these last few years. Soon, life would return to normal, and before I knew it we'd be back solving cases again and eating Indian take-away in front of the TV, watching crap shows and laughing. Back to normality.

A sudden jolt shook me out of my thoughts and I opened my eyes to see the car had stopped outside the Diogenes Club. It made sense really that this would be where my brother had chosen our reunion to be. Obviously he had known about my plan that day on the roof of St Bart's, and I could only hope he'd kept his promise in return for my help. It had taken me three long bloody years to destroy what was left of Moriarty's network, so Mycroft had better have taken care of John while I was gone.

One of Mycroft's lackeys chose that moment to open the car door for me, and I only just managed to keep my face blank as I got out and headed into the club. I could feel my heart rate increase as I moved through the rooms to my brother's office, and I couldn't stop the slight bounce in my step as I neared the room. It wasn't so much the fact that I was back in familiar territory that was making my emotions run wild like this, rather that this meeting would finally mean the end of all the hunting and killing I had endured. With Mycroft's permission, well, confirmation, I would be able to return to my life with John. It would all finally have a purpose.

I didn't bother to knock before I strode into the room, my eyes taking in every detail before coming to rest on Mycroft himself. The first thing I noticed was that he had finally lost weight, but he now looked _too_ thin, and the hollowness of his cheekbones made the dark circles under his eyes stand out even more. It was obvious from the way he refused to meet my eyes and how he was nervously twiddling his thumbs that something was wrong. The thing that worried me was that for him to be looking like this, whatever something had gone wrong had been that way for a while now.

I stopped, uncertain of what to do, what his changing demeanour meant for me. It was obviously going to affect me in a bad way, otherwise he wouldn't look so _guilty_.

My brother chose that moment to finally look up at me, and I could almost feel his gaze as he took in my new appearance. It had been necessary to dye my hair lighter and wear contacts to disguise myself from my enemies, but I wouldn't have to any longer. Hopefully.

"Sherlock." He finally greeted me, and I gave him a nod in return. I was silently hoping he would give me the answers I'd been waiting for without me having to ask him, but it didn't seem like he wanted to.

"I heard the last operation went down smoothly," he began, and his gaze dropped since we both knew he was stalling.

"Enough of your procrastination attempts, brother, just spit it out. Did you keep your promise or not?" I deliberately added bite to my words, and moved myself so that we were barely two feet apart. Half of me didn't want to know what had gone wrong, but I reasoned that I would rather be prepared.

He met my gaze again for a second, and seemed to be about to tell me something important, but backed out quickly, instead going for something else to take my mind off his hesitation. Standing up and walking to the window, he kept his face away from mine when he said a sentence I'd hoped not to hear, at least for a long while yet.

"Mrs Hudson... She was murdered. About three weeks ago."

I stepped back, visibly shocked as I tried to process this new information. Mrs Hudson... She'd been like a mother to me, a replacement one at least. To both me and John, she'd been so sweet and caring, so undeserving of this awful fate. I swallowed hard, so unprepared for this moment that I had to lean against my brother's desk for support.

"Who?" I asked tentatively after a few minutes of silence.

"I don't know." Mycroft replied, but I could tell he was lying. I would ask him about it later, let him keep his secrets for now. I wanted the time to mourn for Mrs Hudson's untimely demise.

"I want to go home. To Baker Street. To John." I looked at him hopefully across the room, and I saw him stiffen at my words. He still hadn't turned around.

"Will that be a problem?" I asked, suddenly so very worried. What if this was why he was so quiet? Had something happened while I was gone? Was John alright? His reply both startled me and had me feeling sick with concern.

"That might be best. There's something we need to discuss, and I'd rather not do it here." He looked at me with a harrowing expression on his face, before sweeping out the room, calling to me as he left to follow in the car I'd arrived in.

I swallowed audibly, and began walking slowly towards the door, so scared that something terrible had happened. What could be worse that the death of Mrs Hudson?

_I didn't even want to think about it._

* * *

**Thank you so much for the reviews, follows and favourites! I really appreciate them, as I love hearing what you think! It just makes writing so much more worth it.**


	3. The Panic Sets In

[Sherlock]

I walked slowly through the twisting hallways and rooms of the Diogenes Club, completely lost in thought. Mycroft had already left, so I didn't have to worry about my thoughts being interrupted. My feet knew the way having done this little journey so many times, and I didn't hurry as I knew my brother would want us to travel in separate vehicles.

What could he possibly have wanted to discuss with me that couldn't be said in the privacy of his office? It was concerning to say the least. There were many possible reasons he required privacy, and many different possibilities as to why he looked so guilty and worried, but I couldn't think of a situation that would require both. Also, the fact that it was somehow worse than the murder of Mrs Hudson was frightfully alarming.

I stopped in my tracks when a thought finally came to me. Something that would make far too much sense. I had to fight the urge to gasp when I realised how probable that particular situation could be. My breath caught in my throat and I was unable to stop the slight tremor in my hands as I tried so very hard to remain calm.

There was only one person who I cared about more than Mrs Hudson, and that was John. My dearest friend... Had something happened to him while I was gone? Could he have been killed too? I fought waves of panic at the notion and began to jog through the last few hallways. I needed to know _now_ what was going on. If John had been killed or even... Killed _himself_... I shook my head at the notion. The man I knew would never give up his life so easily, he was a fighter and always would be, no matter how hard life was. The problem was, now the idea wouldn't go away and a little voice in the back of my head kept sneakily bringing it to my attention while I jogged. I decided that if anything along those lines had occurred, Mycroft would suffer my wrath wholeheartedly. My brother had sworn to protect those I cared about, and he wouldn't be let off so easily if he had failed such a simple task.

I finally reached the waiting car and climbed in, unsurprised when the driver pulled away without need of further instructions. I leaned back and closed my eyes, searching through my memories of the day I supposedly died and realising I had no idea how my death might have affected John. Had he turned to the bottle in the same way his sister had? I was quite certain he would never have touched any drugs being a doctor himself, but I couldn't be certain he wouldn't have had the temptation. I had felt it often enough myself to know the intense happiness one felt when the real world just slipped away. It was, unsurprisingly, a lot easier to think about John having minor problems after my demise rather than him being gone from this world completely. The irony of such a situation would be unparalleled.

The car came suddenly to a halt, and it only took me a second to realise we could not possibly be at Baker Street yet. I opened my eyes and scanned quickly for the problem, which, unfortunately, was far too easy to spot.

There had been an accident, the car in front had its windows shattered and the front was smoking heavily. I could tell immediately that the cause of this crash had been a bomb, but that wasn't what had me scrambling out of the car as fast as I could. It was the fact that I knew that car. It was Mycroft's.

I ran to the smoking heap and managed to open the side door, ready for the possibility of a gory scene considering the extent of the damage. However, my brother looked to be mostly alright, aside from the gash on his forehead and a possible broken arm.

His gaze met mine, and I was shocked to see panic there when he realised I was trying to help him.

"Leave. Now." He ordered, and I was incredulously about to ask why I would do such a thing when he interrupted me with an explanation.

"I don't have time to explain," he said, and he looked so very weak I didn't have the heart to interrupt him. "You need to go right now, and hide. He must not know you're alive, nor that you are back in London. Go to Lestrade, he'll explain everything. Now Sherlock, dammit! Just go!"

I surprised the both of us by actually following my brother's unjustified command, and sprinted away from the wreckage, head spinning from this new information. Who was _he_? Why couldn't he know I was alive? Could it possibly be the same person who had murdered my landlady? Could this man have done something to John? The possibilities were endless, and I was determined to find out exactly what I was dealing with here.

I kept to the back alleys and streets as I made my way to Scotland Yard. I would follow Mycroft's advice and have Lestrade explain everything to me. I was slightly troubled by the idea that my brother could be in danger if this man, whoever he was, was after him, but I cleared my head of those thoughts when I neared the Yard.

It was just too easy to slip past the receptionist and loitering police officers- I would remind Lestade that he needed to upgrade his security after all this was over. I made my way to his office, chuckling slightly when Anderson walked past without recognising me. Stupid man.

I didn't bother to knock before opening Lestrade's door, but in hindsight that probably would have been advisable since he was busy drinking coffee when I walked boldly into the room. The DI's eyes widened when he saw me, and he spat out his drink all over his desk in shock and perhaps a bit of fright.

"Sher-Sherlock! You're alive!" He stuttered and I had to force myself not to roll my eyes. "What...how...why.." He began so many questions but seemed unable to choose which one he wanted me to answer first, as he didn't finish any of them.

"That's not important right at this moment," I said, and his eyes narrowed in both confusion and perhaps a slight wariness now that he had gotten over his initial shock of seeing me alive. "What matters is that my brother sent me to you for an explanation of something. I don't know what, but it seemed very important, and may or may not have something to do with Baker Street and/or John. Am I correct in that assumption?" I could tell immediately by his face that I was right. As soon as I had mentioned John, Lestrade had gone as white as a sheet and had looked at me with such sadness that I couldn't help but worry.

"You don't know." He stated, and leant his head on his hands as he took a deep breath.

"Well obviously not or I wouldn't have come to you!" I spat, growing more and more impatient by the second, but also so very afraid. What could have Lestrade, a Detective Inspector no less, who dealed with such horrible crimes everyday, looking like _this_?

He watched me warily for a few seconds while he tried to figure out a way to tell me what I was now certain was bad, if not terrible, news. I nearly got my answer from him, as he had just opened his mouth to begin, when the door flew open and Donovan skidded into the room, eyes bright with urgency.

"Sir," she began, before she caught sight of me and stopped. I could tell she was wondering what to do, but suddenly she seemed to make the decision and continued, ignoring me completely. It really _was_ urgent, after all.

"You'd better come now, Greg. There's something going on outside. A pub- a public execution. Of Mycroft Holmes, Sir." She looked down, and I could see her visibly shaking. Lestrade stood and ran across the room towards her, grabbing her arms and forcing her to look in his eyes.

"Is it..._Him_?" Greg asked, and Donovan nodded slowly. He put his head in his hands in what looked an awful lot like anguish, and I couldn't help but stare.

"Who?" I asked, already unnerved, but determined to get an answer.

They both turned to look at me, before giving each other a look I couldn't interpret. There seemed to be an unspoken argument, which it looked like Donovan may have won judging by Lestrade's unhappy sigh. He turned back to me and took a small step closer, not meeting my eye.

"You'd better come with us. It'll be the best way to explain just how fucked up this whole thing is." I nodded hesitantly and followed him out of the room.

* * *

**Thanks so much for all your wonderful reviews, follows and favourites! They mean so much to me!**


	4. Torment

[Sherlock]

The scene before me was horrifying.

I'd often rejected the idea that I cared for my brother, and completely denied any notion that suggested otherwise, but this was really pushing even _my_ limits.

A reasonably large crowd had gathered round the corner from the Yard to watch with both horror and fascination what was going on atop a low, hastily constructed stage. There were already police officers surrounding the abomination, attempting to keep the crowd at a safe distance, and trying in vain to access the stage, but they were held off by the promise of a shooting match with the group of men who currently occupied the area, whose guns were pointing into the crowd. All wore black combat gear and sunglasses which would have made the whole scene quite cliche and a bit humorous if not for the set-up in the centre of the stage. My brother was knelt, still bloody from the car accident only twenty minutes ago (it felt like so much longer), and it looked as though he was probably in pain, but he was managing to keep his face expressionless.

Next to Mycroft stood a man who looked vaguely familiar, but I was unable to place where I'd seen him. He reminded me of Moriarty, with his dark hair and a manic, slightly insane-looking grin plastered on his pale face. Like the men he surrounded himself with, this man also wore sunglasses, but was also wearing a navy suit to stand out. There was a small black gun nestled in his right palm, which he was so very casually holding to the side of Mycroft's head, much to my horror and fury. My brother looked to be unfazed by the situation he now found himself in, but I knew from past experience this was not the case. His eyes gave him away, as they were slightly wider than usual and filled with an overpowering sense of fear, knowing his life could end at any moment. I didn't blame him.

We had come to a halt when we had first arrived at the scene, but Lestrade seemed to finally snap out of the trance he was in, and began to move swiftly towards the group of Yard officers already by the stage. I decided to heed Mycroft's prior warning, and put my hood up so it mostly covered my face before following after the DI. We reached the officers at approximately the same time thanks to my longer strides, and I continued to watch the man on the stage for any sign of aggressive movement. He really did look familiar, and I wondered again where I had seen him. Was he one of the criminals I'd helped put into prison? It seemed likely considering what he was doing, but something in my gut was telling me that I wasn't correct in that assumption. So who was he?

Greg had been quietly talking to a female officer, and though I hadn't been listening I could tell they had some information that I did not have, and they were uncertain as to whether to share it with me at this present moment. It annoyed me, but I knew trying to get it out of them would only make them back off even more. Instead, I caught Mycroft's gaze, and his eyes managed to widen even further when he recognised me. He shook his head, trying to tell me to leave the scene, but I narrowed my eyes and shook my head right back at him. I wasn't going to go anywhere while his life was in the hands of a complete stranger who was most likely insane. After a couple of moments, he gave a small sigh and an apologetic look which I didn't really understand.

All these secrets were getting on my nerves, and just made me all the more determined to find out exactly what was going on. Luckily, I didn't have long to wait.

At that moment, Lestrade stepped forward into the direct sight of the man on the stage, who swapped his creepy smile for a more satisfying smirk as the two locked gazes. The man stood up straighter as the DI moved closer, and he seemed to be expecting him, as he waved away his security when they tensed at the oncoming visitor. I hung back but moved slowly closer to the stage, blending in to those around me.

"This. Ends. Now." Lestrade growled, and I was surprised at how forceful he sounded, but more importantly, how _informally_ he had decided to address the man. This led me to believe that they knew each other well, but how? Lestrade wasn't one to go round befriending criminals, and especially not criminal masterminds like this man appeared to be. Although, I had to question this man's logic, surely he could see the flaw with coming out here in the middle of a crowd to reveal himself? Not always the smartest move.

Then, he spoke.

That voice... I definitely knew it. It was different somehow, and that made it more difficult to place, but I was certain I'd heard it before. It was quite high pitched, but it sounded as though he was putting it on, his voice was definitely not that high usually.

"What ends, Greg? Mycroft's life? Well, he does deserve it, and since you insist..." The familiar stranger grinned again and clicked the safety off the gun causing everyone watching to stiffen in anticipation.

"Please..." Lestrade had resorted to begging, his authority having no effect on this man.

The man regarded Lestrade for a moment thoughtfully, before chuckling quietly to himself. "Beg. Beg for this son-of-a-bitch's life. And maybe if you do, I won't kill him. Yet." He said, cocking his head on one side and I saw Greg go pale.

After a couple of moments Lestrade let out a deep and very defeated sigh. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before lowering his head in either shame or submission, it was difficult to tell which.

"Please. You know it's not right, what you're doing. It wasn't Mycroft's fault what happened. Or Mrs Hudson's." He wiped a stray tear at the thought, and I felt myself go cold as I realised exactly what he was saying. "You need to stop this right now, let Mycroft go and we can talk about this. This isn't you. The man I knew would never do anything like this!" Lestrade's voice had risen to an almost hysteric level as he fought so hard to remain calm and controlled, but was failing miserably. I began to move towards him, and soon I was just a few feet behind, no longer caring about being seen.

The man rolled his eyes. "Ugh, Greg. Don try to talk to me about any of that bullshit. We both know exactly what happened. In case you don't remember, I was _there_." He turned and looked disgustedly down at my brother as he said this. Suddenly, a change came over him. His body stiffened, and he bared his teeth in what looked like barely-concealed fury. I immediately recognised what he was going to do, and as he raised the gun I sprinted up to the stage, hoisting myself up and tackling him to the ground just as the gun went off. We both went sprawling to the floor, and I sat up and looked around at my brother to check he had not been hurt. He looked positively horrified, and I couldn't understand why. I turned back to the man I had just tackled and stopped, completely unmoving as I really saw him for the first time.

His glasses had fallen off upon his impact with the ground, and now I could see his whole face. His completely familiar face that I had seen so many times that I had memorised it, detail for detail. His bright blue eyes, usually so full of life and joy were now dead and empty, but still far too recognisable.

Suddenly everything made sense.

The guilty look my brother had given me.

The worry and regret on Lestrade's face.

The whispers.

It. Was. John.

"John..." I murmured, and he too froze as he finally recognised me.

"Sh-Sherlock?" He asked.

I could only nod.

* * *

**Was that a good enough reveal? I wanted to add as much drama as possible, hope you enjoyed it! Please keep up with the lovely reviews, they mean so much to me, and I appreciate every single one! Next chapter should be up on schedule tomorrow night. **


	5. A Life of Insanity

[John]

I watched with avid fascination as the car exploded, and I only wished I could have seen the Ice Man's face as he realised what had happened. I was only watching it live on the laptop one of my lackeys had conveniently remembered to bring with them, but I still felt a rush of pleasure and excitement when the bomb went off. I let out a happy giggle as I cherished the moment. The beginning of the end, one might say. The end of the bastard who had cost my dearest friend his life. It still hurt to think of Sherlock, but I talked to him often in my dreams, and he always supported whatever I was planning, so it wasn't as though he was gone. Not really. I still missed his presence, but at least this way I wasn't constantly worrying about whether he was alright. No one could hurt him now.

I also visited his grave occasionally, but never for long, as Mycroft would always know when I was there, and would attempt to talk me out of this "mad path of vengeance" as he so eloquently put it. I grinned as I realised I would no longer have to worry about his interruptions. He would soon be dead.

I continued to watch the tape, and froze when something caught my eye. A figure, running to the car, having just stepped out of the one behind. I growled and muttered a string of curses under my breath, causing the man on my right to flinch in anticipation. They all knew what happened when I got in a rage, and this was certainly enough to make me angry. The figure, who I couldn't see properly, seemed to talk to Mycroft for a few seconds, then abruptly left, fleeing into the nearest dark alleyway. I pondered this for a moment, but decided soon after that it wasn't a big deal. Most likely one of Mycroft's spies, or one of Sherlock's old homeless network. One stupid homeless person would not be able to stop my plan.

It was time to greet the British Government.

Three of my men got out of a nearby car and i watched on the screen as they trooped across to the smoking mess, flinging the door open and dragging an injured Mycroft out by his forearms. I smirked pleasantly when I realised he was in pain. Served him right.

They brought him back to the car, and began to drive to the predetermined meeting post which I was already outside of. Getting out of the car I had been waiting in, I skipped over to the building I would "prep" our guest in. I wouldn't be able to fully make him pay once we were on the stage, as I'd have to make do with a quick, dramatic execution, but there was no reason I couldn't give him a piece of my mind beforehand.

I waited patiently for a good ten minutes before they arrived, dragging a slightly broken-looking Mycroft between them. His eyes widened when he saw me, and I gave him a little wave and an evil grin. I'd dyed my hair since I last saw him, as dark blond didn't really give off that 'evil maniac' vibe I was going for. I was wearing an expensive navy suit just for the occasion, it was amazing the amount of money one could make when organising crimes. No wonder Moriarty had liked it so much.

"John." Mycroft finally greeted me, and I saw a flash of pain in his eyes. I stepped closer until we were only a couple of meters apart, and gestured to my guards that they should put him in the chair I had provided. He had given me a choice of whether or not to stand when we first met, but I didn't think he deserved the option. Once he was seated, he had to look up at me to see my face, and I removed my glasses so that he could see every movement I made. I wanted him to look me in the eye for these last few minutes of his life, and I wanted him to fully understand how much he had betrayed both me and Sherlock.

"I had guessed you'd be coming for me." he sighed and I lowered my face so it was directly in front of his.

"We're going to have lots of fun in these next few minutes, Mycroft dear. I only wish poor Sherlock could be here to see this! He'd join in, you know. That man always complained about how much he hated you, no wonder you betrayed him!" He flinched, and I had to force myself not to hit him as a look of regret passed his face.

"No no no! You can't possibly be expecting forgiveness now can you?" I kept the smile on my face, but it was forced, and I narrowed my eyes as a wave of fury passed through me.

"Look, John..." He stared, but I cut him off, my anger finally spilling out.

"No, Mycroft! I will not stand here and let you tell me about how _He_ wouldn't have wanted this, how I'm making a mistake and that I should let you help me! He trusted you, and YOU KILLED HIM!" I screamed in his face, and I was happy to see the Ice Man flinch at my accusations. I then proceeded to punch him in the jaw, and then slapped him for good measure. He was panting heavily, and I could see the well-masked but painfully obvious fear in his eyes.

"You're a complete bastard, you know that right?" I gritted my teeth and punched him again for good measure, giving a grunt of approval when I heard the air being forced out of his lungs. "You, and everyone else that helped kill him that day. Don't worry, they'll all get their turns." I spat at him, and I shook my head when he attempted to wipe it off. I wanted him to feel my contempt for him, burning against his pale flesh in that puddle of saliva dripping down his cheek.

"I still don't see why Mrs Hudson had to become part of your messed-up plans for revenge, John. You know it wasn't right. The John that I knew, the John that Sherlock jumped for, he wouldn't have done that." I could see his impressive brain working, trying to think of anything he could say that might make me question what I was doing. I just laughed cruelly at his response.

"Oh come now Mycroft! If she hadn't been 'injured', I would never have left Sherlock alone with Moriarty, and he wouldn't have jumped." I watched him, very happy with my explanation, but he didn't seem to agree with my logic.

"That's it?! That's why you killed her? Because Sherlock sent that text to get you out of the way?! How could she possibly have known he would do that? The only person you can blame for that is him-" I couldn't stand to listen to any more of his crap.

"ENOUGH!" I shrieked, and he recoiled in surprise and fear. I punched him again, and this time he fell to the floor, clutching his eye. I kicked him and stood on his fingers, all the while tears were streaming down my face. Once I was certain he could no longer defend himself, I bent down and growled at him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking him towards me.

"You listening?" I asked him, and pulled on his hair until he nodded. "You don't realise how much I hate you. How much I want to beat you until an inch of your life, and then kill you in the longest most excruciating pain possible. But I have something else planned for you!" I grinned at the confusion etched on his face and laughed gleefully before continuing.

"You will be an example to the people of London. To everyone who helped kill _Him_, with their vile words and comments that held no evidence. They will watch as I kill you, and they will be unable to do anything about it. They will live in fear and regret of what they have done." I let that settle in before I delivered the biggest blow of all.

"You see, Mycroft, you were wrong. Sentiment is an advantage, just look at where it's brought me! If only Sherlock could see me now..." I looked up in thought as I imagined the look of delight on his face if he were here with me now.

"You're delusional. Mad. Insane." Mycroft growled, and I turned to him in surprise. "He would have despised what you've become. You aren't powerful, you aren't serving justice at those who've hurt you. You're a monster, John Watson. An evil, soulless creature, just like Moriarty."

I felt my face twist with rage as his words finally registered, and I slapped him again for the last time. "Bring him." I ordered to my henchmen, and they obeyed, pulling the British Government up by his shoulders. I turned to him one last time and whispered, "Any regrets?"

"Just one. Not killing you when I had the chance." He stiffened as though expecting another slap, but I just giggled at him and patted him lightly on the shoulder.

"You wouldn't have done that," I said as he looked at me confusedly. "Sherlock wouldn't have let you." With that, I skipped ahead, singing softly to myself as I went.

* * *

We arrived on the stage shortly after, and soon a crowd had gathered. I brought my gun up to Mycroft's head and forced him to kneel beside me as I waited for Lestrade. I knew he'd be the one to come. He always did.

I didn't have to wait long, and soon saw him walk towards me. I felt my grin get even wider as I registered the look of horror and depression he wore at seeing me.

"This. Ends. Now." He said, and I could only smirk at how stupidly corny that sentence had been.

"What ends, Greg? Mycroft's life? Well, he does deserve it, and since you insist..." I completely believed with every atom that made up my being that Mycroft did deserve to die. However, I wasn't quite done yet, and happily bantered with Lestrade for a bit longer, forcing him to beg even though I knew it wouldn't work. Mycroft would die here, that was a certainty.

I rolled my eyes when he started to whine on about how "John wouldn't have done this" and all that was absolute bollocks. I was still John wasn't I? And I was certainly doing this.

"Ugh, Greg. Don try to talk to me about any of that bullshit. We both know exactly what happened. In case you don't remember, I was _there_." I reasoned with him, before turning back to Mycroft. Suddenly I felt I couldn't wait any longer. His death would bring me a small amount of peace, and I would take all the peace I could get at the moment. I raised the gun to fire, but someone knocked into me from behind, causing the gun to go off away from Mycroft's head, and sending us both sprawling on the floor. My glasses flew off and shattered a few feet away which caused me to curse quietly. Whoever had stopped me was going to pay dearly. They were Gucci for goodness sakes!

I turned to face them, and possibly shoot them in the head if need be, but I stopped.

There was something about the man that I recognised, but what was it...?

Then, everything shifted into focus as he spoke, his eyes wide with horror and shock.

"John?" He whimpered.

I couldn't think straight. This wasn't possible. He was dead.

"Sh-Sherlock?" I mumbled, worried he wasn't real, that insanity had finally overcome me at long last. However, he nodded, and I realised exactly what this meant. For him, for me, for both of us.

Holy Shit, I thought.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter, you guys are amazing! Thank you so much for all your favourites, reviews and follows! Special thanks to all my reviewers, you guys rock!**


	6. The Sound of Time Stopping

[Sherlock]

Time seemed to slow down, then stop altogether as we regarded each other, matching looks of shock on our faces. Each of us waited for the other to react, to do something, _anything_, in light of the situation which we now found ourselves. However, since neither of us could have possibly predicted this meeting, we had no idea what to say to each other. For once, my brain was not trying to come up with a solution. I was too numb inside for any kind of deep thinking, and I knew that once I started to delve into what this situation now meant for the both of us, I would not be able to stop for some time. John seemed to be thinking along the same lines. wasteland like a while before either of us moved, though it must only have been a few seconds in total. Needless to say, John's reaction was also quite unexpected, but at that moment I really felt I deserved it.

The change was so sudden that I barely had time to process it before he was upon me. His eyes became slits and he bared his teeth in a snarl as he leapt forward, shoving me down onto the floor of the stage and sitting on top of me, pinning me down so I couldn't struggle. I wouldn't have been able to anyway, I was still in shock. This man was not my John. He couldn't possibly be my John, the man I left behind. That man was a good man. This person was barely human.

He screamed abuse at me, and I lay there and took it. He began to slap me and pull my hair, and still I lay there, unmoving. I could feel the eyes of everyone on us, Mycroft included, but I ignored them all. This moment was for me and John. He had started crying sometime between then and when he had first started punching me. I let him cry, and he didn't bother to wipe the tears away. They dropped on my face, and he stopped with his vile, horrible, truthful words to watch them as they moved down my cheeks. We stayed like that, just watching each other, and silently he got off my chest and sat beside my head, still keeping his gaze locked with my own.

"This is certainly not what I planned out reunion to be like." I said, my voice devoid of emotion. He finally looked away, looked down to where he had been unconsciously twisting his fingers together, and sighed.

"How did you plan it, then?" He asked, and I realised I had no answer for him. Certainly never on a stage surrounded by strangers. Never shoving him away from Mycroft as he aimed a gun at my brother's head. Never watching him, knowing he had lost his mind. Lost his humanity, even. I'd been prepared for the abuse, the hurtful words. I'd deserved them. The insanity was not what I'd wanted, nor expected from the level-headed army doctor.

"I don't know what to say." I finally admitted.

"That's a first." He started to drum out a rhythm on the floor. Four beats, over and over again. Dimly I registered that the police force were trying to disperse the crowd, and the noise they were making was giving me and John some more privacy. I didn't know when I had unconsciously stopped calling him 'my friend' in my head. I didn't know whether I'd be able to call him that again, not after this. I was pretty sure he felt the same way about me.

"I did it for you. It was all for you." I said, and I truly meant it. No matter what he had done, I still meant it. I would always mean it. That didn't mean I was going to accept him. There were certain limits, and John had passed them all with his unforgivable actions.

He turned to look at me, and I saw a stranger. A stranger, with John's face, staring back at me. He had the look of John, but it was his eyes that gave him away. I once heard someone say that "The eyes are the window to the soul." But if that was the case, the man in front of me didn't have one. His eyes were bottomless pits of seething anger and hate and cruelty. I searched, but I could not find the good army doctor, who had risked his life for so many others on so many different occasions. My friend did not feature in the eyes of this heartless killer.

"You left. It destroyed me." Was all he said. He had spoken in a factual manner, as though he was talking about the weather or what he was going to have for dinner that night.

Frankly, it scared me.

"I..." There was no way I could finish that sentence. He seemed to realise this, and nodded to himself, as though I wasn't even there.

"You made me watch." He smiled to himself, as though he was reliving a happy memory. The only thing that stopped me calling him out on it was the fact that his had was shaking, ever so gently. For the first time in that conversation, I allowed myself something, a good emotion.

Hope.

If his hand that had been so steady throughout his heated insults was now shaking, there was a possibility that the John I knew and loved was still there somewhere, buried in the depths of this hideous creature who called himself John. This madman. I decided to retaliate with accusations of my own, to see if I could bring out more of this John.

"You killed Mrs Hudson." It hurt me to say that out loud, but he needed to hear it. His eye twitched, but he remained otherwise impassive.

"You were about to kill Mycroft." I tried again. He looked at me for a second, but he only seemed to be checking if I was serious.

"He betrayed you. I did what I thought was right." He stared thoughtfully at the ground for a few moments, then back at my face. "You always agreed with me when you were in my dreams. Now though... You just look sad. Ashamed, even." His expression had turned to one of confusion, and he looked at me questioningly.

"I would never have agreed with you." I told him. He nodded as though he had expected it. I noticed he was still drumming away on the wooden floor. He had picked up multiple splinters, but he was either ignoring them or just didn't care.

"I don't know what to do now." He confessed, and I agreed with him, though I didn't give any indication of this. Sometime during our conversation the crowd had fully dispersed, and we were left with John's armed guards and a group of Yard officers watching us. Mycroft had moved away to give us some privacy, and it seemed John's men were at loss for what to do, and they had let him pass to speak with Lestrade. They were shooting us worried glances, but I wasn't done yet. I knew as soon as we moved, life would start up again, and we wouldn't be able to get off this time. The last few years had left us changed in a way I wasn't sure was reversible.

There was something I really wanted to ask him, but wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer. In the end I just went for it.

"Is he still in there? The John I left behind, my friend, is he still alive in there?" I held my breath and looked away from those dead eyes that had lost that happy glimmer John had once had. Kind, joyous, loving John.

"I don't know." He answered, truthfully.

I swallowed thickly against the tears that threatened.

"I missed you, Sherlock." He said. That's when the tears finally did escape from my eyes. They trailed slowly down my face, and my vision blurred. I was dimly aware that I hadn't cried in seventeen years, but I decided it wasn't really something to be proud of.

John cried too, and we just sat like that, waiting for that inevitable moment when time would start once more and release us, spinning our lives back into the dark depths of chaos.

* * *

**You. Guys. Are. Amazing. Have I said that enough already? No? Well I think I'll be saying it at least once every chapter for the foreseeable future! Hope you liked this one, it was fun to write in a sort of sad, depressing way. I had no idea until this moment how dark I could actually be. You'd think I got some kind of rush out of it, which isn't true at all. Really.**


	7. Little Games of Madness

[John]

Everything ends. I'd resigned myself to the fact long ago, but even so I still had trouble with endings. It didn't make a difference as to whether they were good or bad ones- endings meant a cease, a stop, for both happy times and sad ones, and there's no way to stop an end when it's crept up on you. They have a nasty habit of doing so when you least want them. Time continues, sweeps past you, and if you close your eyes for even a second it's gone. You run behind, gasping for breath and your legs are on fire from the unexpected sprint but you're too far behind to catch up. There's no way to get it back, you just have to continue until you can't possibly cope any more, and time leaves you behind forever. It had taken me until that moment where Sherlock and I sat huddled on that stage to realise that I'd been left behind three years ago, and I was never going to catch up. I'd thought Time had lost him forever, but while we cried together that day it suddenly became painfully obvious that it was I who had been left in Time's wake. Sherlock was still running, moving forward but I had stayed in the past, consumed by vengeance and hatred from the moment I'd closed my eyes.

They were closed now as I sat beside him, and I could feel Time leave us behind since we did not make an effort to move. Moving meant asking questions we didn't really want the answers to, and having to give answers we didn't really want to share. However, it seemed Time was not ready to leave us behind just yet.

"Sir," someone said, and I opened my eyes to see one of my lackeys (I couldn't remember his name, it might possibly have been Mark, but I couldn't be certain) standing over me, his brows creased in concern. I waved him off, but he persisted.

"We need to leave, Sir. The car is ready when you are." I nodded. It was all I could do. I turned to Sherlock, but he was in his familiar thinking position, seemingly unaware of the exchange that had just taken place not three feet away.

It was then that I finally realised that I hadn't really been listening to myself while I ranted on in my head about Time and being left behind. This was all the opportunity I needed to continue forward, and I was being given a choice. Two pathways, one with Sherlock, the other allowing me to continue this new life I'd made for myself while he'd been gone.

The decision should have been easy.

I should have returned to the life I had loved with the man I had been so ready to follow, even into death. But Time changes people, and I was no exception. Returning with Sherlock would mean facing the consequences of what I'd done. It would mean he'd never be able to look me in the eye again. It would mean I'd go to prison. To counselling. To a mental hospital, possibly.

Then, there were the other things I needed to consider. The things the old John would have been ashamed to admit.

I enjoyed this new rush from the criminal business. It was more exciting even than solving cases with the detective himself.

I didn't want to leave my new criminal empire behind. It had taken me years to set up.

And, probably most importantly, I was not the same John he'd left behind. I never would be, not really. I was a broken man. A shell of my former self. And I knew he would not really accept me back. There were limits to even what he was capable of. Maybe I could make it work, but my heart told me it just wasn't possible. John Hamish Watson died along with Sherlock Holmes that day on St Barts. His soul shattered. I didn't have one. We were different people.

I knew deep down that I was making a mistake. But when that black car pulled up, I didn't hesitate. I ran. Even Time couldn't keep up with me. I could feel Sherlock watching me as I climbed in, but I didn't meet his eyes. He made no move to stop me, and I made no move to stop. I turned around for one last glimpse, and I almost wished I hadn't. Because then I realised something else.

I cared too much for Sherlock Holmes. He had hurt me so much that I had succumbed into insanity, but I still needed him in a sick, twisted way. I was leaving him because I didn't want to care for him. He'd just get hurt again, and I didn't think I could take another blow like that. Not again. I didn't have a soul left, and I really didn't want to find out what would break next.

As we moved further and further away from each other I resided myself to the fact that I could never know him again. I would lead my life, and he would continue down his with no distractions such as myself. It was the only way I could think of to keep him safe, away from the little games of madness and deceit that I still played. He couldn't get hurt that way. I couldn't get hurt.

I chose to ignore the fact that this was probably the first time in the last three painful years that I had sounded halfway sane.

* * *

**Thanks so much for the continually rising number of followers I have! And a special well done to vampiregirl1700 for getting the subtle Dr Who reference in the last chapter! I did think of the Master when I was writing John, and wanted something to make him sound a little bit more criminally insane, but for those of you who don't watch DW, don't worry it's not a big part of the plot and probably won't feature again.**


	8. A Strange New World

[Sherlock]

I watched him leave and I finally realised what it was like to be the one left behind. Before I fell, it was always me who ran off and left John, and I never gave a thought to what it must have felt like for him. Always watching me as I ran off, never able to catch up.

My resolve cracked as I watched him give me one last look from the back of the car. It was a sad look, not the slightly feral look he'd been giving Lestrade when we'd first arrived. It still wasn't a look the old John would have given me, but it was closer. The problem was, he had left. That meant he'd chosen his new life over me. Did it mean he no longer cared for me? There had been obvious signs of anger and depression when he'd seen me for the first time after believing I was dead. However, whether that was because he had been sad about my death or my return was unclear.

When I could no longer see that sad look in John's eyes, I slowly stood up. This warranted a sudden unwanted attention from Lestrade and Mycroft, who I didn't really want to talk to but I knew there would be an inevitable conversation sooner or later. That didn't mean it couldn't be later.

I turned to leave, intending a speedy wt-away, but Lestrade shouted after me. I had a desperate desire to run, not to look back and see the pity-filled faces of the Yard officers. I didn't want their sympathy. But I needed to know what had happened, what had gone wrong with John so that I could have a better understanding of how to help him.

I waited for him to catch up, but I didn't turn around. When he put his hand on my back I flinched unintentionally, causing him to remove it as though I had burned him.

"We need to talk..." He said, and I sighed. A clicking of expensive shoes started behind me, and I turned to see my brother's expressionless face scrutinising me for signs of discomfort and loss. They were there, but carefully hidden underneath my blank look.

I nodded my consent to Lestrade, and we headed back to his office. Once we arrived, I sat in his chair, much to his annoyance. Obviously I wasn't going to just stand! It was much easier to think when sitting down, you didn't have to worry about useless things such as keeping your balance.

"When?" I asked. Lestrade gave me a blank look, and I rolled my eyes in frustration. "When did John go...downhill?" I added, unable to use 'mad' or 'insane' in my description of him, even after what he'd done.

Mycroft answered first. "We aren't completely sure. He disappeared the week after you fell, and only returned half a year ago. By then he'd already created his little... 'Empire'. We tried to talk sense into him, but he was already too far gone, hell-bent on revenge for your death. He was insane, psychopathic and completely focused on you."

"Like Moriarty..." Lestrade said softly. My eyes snapped to his and I growled in fury.

"Don't. Ever. Compare. Him. To. That. Madman." I said, my eyes narrowing in pain and fury. There was no need to shout, they could see the anger burning in my expression.

"I'm afraid, brother, that at the moment that is the best description of him. John Watson is long gone. I'm sorry." Mycroft said.

I took a moment before giving them my answer. "No."

"No?" Lestrade looked puzzled.

"No." I agreed. I returned my gaze to Mycroft's questioning one.

"You still think he an be saved," he said quietly. I didn't bother to agree with him, they could both see it in my face anyway. Mycroft sighed dejectedly, in the way a parent does just before explaining to their child why what they think is wrong.

"I know it's hard, Sherlock. However, I have always had your best interests at heart, and the man you once called friend has succumbed to madness. Neither of us expected something like this to happen, but there were always risks with your plan. Something was bound to happen. You need to move on, to accept the fact you can no longer live and work together. I did tell you sentiment was not an advantage, maybe if your listened to me none of this would have happened." It was a low blow, even for Mycroft, but it still hurt.

"I can't just move on with life and pretend he never happened!" I roared, before turning back to Lestrade, even knowing I was pleading a losing case. "You said it yourself! He makes me a better person! We make each other whole!" I was beyond the point of civil conversation. Now was the time to find someone to blame. I chose Mycroft.

"This is your fault! You were supposed to take care of him!" I screamed at my brother, knowing he would not care much for my loss of control, but it still felt good to say it.

"That's what he said as well." Mycroft replied bitterly. "I get involved to try and help you, and this is the thanks I get. Well, good luck with your futile quest to return the good doctor's humanity, brother." And with that, he left, his umbrella making clicking sounds on the linoleum as he fled my wrath.

I glowered at his receding back, but he didn't turn around to meet my glare. "Good riddance," I muttered, but it wasn't, not really. I most likely would need his help in the near future, but my pride could not take many more hits that day.

Lestrade made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sigh before slouching into the chair across from me, his head soon resting into his hands from sheer exhaustion.

_I needed an idea for what to do next_, I decided.

"I need a list of exactly everything you know about John following my death." I told him, watching for his reaction.

He chuckled into his hands, before looking back up at me, determination set into his features.

"Sounds like a plan," He said.

* * *

**I didn't think I was going to be able to post this chapter tonight but, well, here you go! Sorry for any mistakes, I haven't had time to go through and correct it! Please keep reviewing, I've actually got a little competition running between me and my friend as to who can get the most reviews in a fic, so I'm hoping to win! Please help! I'll give imaginary Nutella cookies to everyone who reviews!**


	9. Glorious

[John]

_Clench. Unclench. Clench. Unclench._

It was soothing in a particularly unique way, the constant pattern in the movement of my hands. There was nothing unexpected, and nothing could go wrong. I was completely in control, and it felt good.

_Clench. Unclench. Clench. Un-_

"Sir, there's been a bit of a problem..."

_Clench._

I took a deep, calming breath before I looked up. "What. Problem." I asked monotonously. I forced my hands to relax.

The man in front of me swallowed thickly before continuing. "It's Mr Peters, sir. He, um, showed signs of giving out some of the information. We warned him, sir, but he didn't listen..." The man looked as though he was going to have a panic attack soon if our conversation continued much longer, and he kept eyeing the door nervously.

_Clench._

"Why wasn't I informed sooner?" I kept my voice indifferent but I could feel my eyes narrow in anger. The man, I vaguely recalled his name to be Carter, could obviously see the subtle shift, as he began to blabber on about how it was all under control and that I needn't worry. My head snapped up at that comment, and I let out a harsh laugh that quickly turned into a fit of giggles.

I stood and walked to the window, still chuckling to myself, and looked out across the city of London. "So glorious..." I murmured under my breath.

"Sir?" Carter asked hesitantly.

I turned my head, but I didn't do so far enough to allow him to see my face. I immediately stopped my short laughing fit. "Well then. It seems you have it all under control then, right?" I grinned, but the smile did not reach my eyes. He nodded eagerly, and I saw the ghost of a smile begin to start on his own face, no doubt relief from the fact I hadn't maimed or killed him yet. Best crush it sooner rather than later. "But... Well, if its 'all under control' as you so eloquently put it... Why did you need to come to me?" That's when I finally met his eyes. There was no humour in this situation. This man had failed me, and therefore no longer had a significant purpose in my organisation.

"Well, sir, I just needed to check that you knew about it and that you were happy with how everything was going and-"

_Clench._

I could see the terror in his face, and I loved it. This feeling of complete control was wonderful, and I could completely understand how some people worked for it their whole lives. I strolled back to my desk and opened one of my favourite drawers.

"I was assured by both you and Marcus that Mr Peters was in no condition to give away any kind of information." I let my eyes trace the object in the drawer, the cold metal that would soon be in my grasp.

"He surprised us all sir, me included. There didn't seem to be any way he could divulge the information, but he seems to no longer care for his own life, sir..." The man's face was twitching nervously, and small beads of sweat had begun to appear on his forehead.

"You failed me, Carter." I said, finally removing the gun from the drawer and running my hand over it lovingly.

"No, wait! Sir, Boss, please! I'll try so much harder next time, I'll never make another mistake, please! I-"

_Bang._

Carter crumpled to the floor, his lifeblood pouring from the gaping hole in his chest. It was quite interesting, really, and I would have loved for Sherlock to have been there, deducing everything about the situation from why I'd killed the man to what kind of gun I'd used. Though, that being said, it was probably for the best he wasn't there, he'd have probably just given me a disappointed look, and that would have made me upset...

_Stop thinking about him._

I sighed, and walked back around to the front of my desk to check the damage. I seemed to have acquired a voice in my head telling me not to think about my newly-resurrected flatmate, and I really couldn't blame it. There was no knowing what intensity of emotional outburst I would have if I thought about him for too long. Therefore, I would not think about him at all. Easier said than done.

I surveyed the body. Carter had been mid-thirties, not much younger than myself, and had no family that I knew of. Turning to my desk I pressed the intercom and told my secretary to send a car to the from of the building and to have someone clean up the body in my office. I would be paying a personal visit to Peters, as it had been too long (about three days) since I'd last gone somewhere exciting, not counting the encounter with Mycroft and Sher-

_No. Don't even think his name._

Fine. Mycroft and his brother. Still, three days was too long, and I needed an adrenaline rush. Even killing just didn't do it for me anymore. It was all about causing other people excessive amounts of pain, then killing them slowly. That's where all the fun was.

I smirked and stepped lightly over the crimson stain in the middle of the room, skipping happily down the hall.

* * *

**Sorry it's a bit of a short chapter, I'll try to make them longer from now! Good news, I seem to be winning in this competition against my friend! She'll never know what hit her! Thanks so so much for all the reviews, I really didn't expect this many follows and favourites in such a short space of time! I love you all!**


	10. Rache

[Sherlock]

Sitting here with Lestrade (I still completely refused to call him Greg, and he'd probably think something was wrong if I did anyway) was almost enough to make me forget about my current predicament. We had discussed John for a bit, and the DI had been especially forthcoming with information, but there wasn't much else to do or say on that matter for the moment. Either John needed to make the first move, or we needed one of Lestrade's officers to pick out his location, providing he was still in London.

Apparently, what Mycroft had suggested was correct as far as Lestrade was concerned, since John basically disappeared off the face of the earth for approximately nine hundred days, with no communication whatsoever. My brother had been livid, and had sent his best agents out looking for John, but their searching was to no avail, and it seemed as though he was lost forever. Much to everyone's surprise, talk of a criminal mastermind had suddenly come about nearly two and a half years after my death, and it seemed as though every man or woman the Yard took into custody was in awe of this new man. Fear ran its course through the streets of London as bodies began to litter the streets. All the victims seemed to have had a connection to the new crime network that had been set up, but its secrets remained a mystery to the police force. There was no room for any undercover work, as it seemed the master of the operation knew exactly what he was looking for in an employee. As Lestrade had put it, "The crime rates had never been so high, and the number of arrests so low." People were afraid to walk the streets, and a curfew was set up in some of the more dodgy areas. That's when the murders became more personal.

A week before the two and a half anniversary of my death, Kittie Riley's body was found. She had been tortured before being shot in the head, and one word scratched into her back, "Rache". That time, it really had meant revenge.

It became immediately obvious that whoever this new criminal mastermind was, he had an obsession with dishing out justice to all those who he believed had played a part in my demise. An attempt on the life of Sally Donovan had been made a couple of days after, and though she had not been killed, "Rache" was still inscribed into her back, and she had been on constant sedatives while she healed, so there was no way to know if she'd seen the face of her attacker. The Yard began to search desperately for the criminal, but those they captured to try for information refused to talk, saying that their boss could do worse to them in one hour if they told than the Yard could do in ten years.

"You aren't going to believe this next bit," Lestrade had then told me.

According to the DI, John just walked into Scotland Yard one day, skipping along as though nothing was wrong and he hadn't been missing for years on end. He had changed his appearance, and looked nicer than he had even while living with me. The Yard officers had formed a crowd around him, eager to hear how he had managed to evade them all, Lestrade included. However, from the minute he'd opened his mouth, they could tell something was wrong. He'd started to talk about what a shame it was that Donovan had been involved in something so awful. As he'd talked, his right eye was beginning to twitch uncontrollably. He moved on from the topic of Sally to that of Sherlock, and how he'd trusted so many people, and they had let him down, in the end. The sentence would have been accepted had it not been for the humongous grin stretching across John's pale face. He'd then proceeded to remove his sunglasses and show off the new dark, merciless pits that were his eyes, before removing a gun from his trousers and shooting Anderson where it must have hurt. A lot. Even _he_ didn't deserve that, and that was saying something.

John had been taken into custody immediately, and had then proceeded to inform them all that he was the new face of London's criminal network, and that they'd be seeing him a lot more often. Lestrade had confronted him about his antics, and he'd simply replied "Rache, Greg. It's all about revenge. Sherlock was a good man, and every single goddamn person he knew betrayed him. Including you." Then he'd apparently refused to talk anymore, going off into his 'own little world of revenge and thoughts of madness' as Lestrade had described it.

That had been a big blow to the Scotland Yard team, and they were so occupied with the why's and how's of John's acts that they forgot to keep a better eye on the man himself. The next day, there was no one in the holding cell, and no CCTV footage to show how he'd escaped.

There had been an increase in the number of both bodies and crimes over the next few months, but only one confirmed sighting of John, when he'd gone to talk to Mycroft. No one knew exactly what he had said to my brother, as neither released even a word of their exchange to anyone else, but it must have made an impact, as security was tripled on everyone previously connected to me. Then, just three weeks ago, Mrs Hudson had been found dead, right on the Yard's doorstep. She had not been tortured, thank God, but the usual markings of a murder by John had been replaced by something else. Red graffiti had been sprayed around her into a very foreboding quote- 'My silence is not weakness, but the beginning of my revenge.'

After Lestrade had explained that particularly uncalled for event, I felt my nails dig into my palms in a failing attempt to remain calm and not lash out when the DI was only trying to help. I began to smell a familiar scent of copper and looked down to see crimson stains spreading where my nails had broken the skin of my hands. I hadn't even realised how hard I'd been clenching my fists.

Lestrade watched me, and I knew he was waiting for some kind of confession of my feelings, but I really wasn't in the mood. I would never be in the mood for such a thing. He gave in eventually with a rather uncalled for sigh, and we allowed the silence to build around us since neither of us was willing to break it.

"Will you go back to Baker Street?" Lestrade finally asked. I really hadn't thought about it, and I didn't really want to discuss the matter. However, I knew he would force me to come and stay with him if I didn't return to the old flat.

"Yes." I finally replied. He nodded slowly, almost hesitantly.

"And... The, um, memories won't matter? No potential triggers?" Again, not something I'd really thought of. Plus, Mrs Hudson was no longer the landlady, so I probably wouldn't be able to return anyway. No doubt someone would have moved in by now if neither I nor John was living in it.

He must have taken my silence for hesitation, because he continued his reasoning. "It's probably for the best anyway... I mean, John would know where you were, and there's no telling what plans he might have in store now you're back..." He trailed off, unsure what else to say. I cut in before he could say anything about staying with him.

"Mycroft will pay for a new flat for me, he certainly can spare the funds." Lestrade nodded eagerly, and we left it at that. Truth be told, I wasn't completely certain that my brother would even talk to me after my outburst, let alone give me money for a flat.

"I'm just getting a coffee." Lestrade said, and as he left the room I silently thanked him for letting me have some time on my own to think.

The most pressing issue- _What now?_

John had been my anchor ever since that first day we'd met, and it was difficult to imagine a life in London without him now. I'd barely been on the mend from my last drug relapse when he'd found me, and life had been so much more fulfilling with him by my side. Everything I'd done since my death had been in the hopes that when I returned life would continue as though I'd never left, but it no longer looked as though that was an option unless we managed to fix things. The problem was that it seemed very unlikely that we could just 'fix' this with a few conversations. Optimism was never my strong point, and so I liked to have a plan in place for every scenario. However, it did not look like there was a happy ending for anyone if John did not return to a semi-normal state. I would undoubtedly return to my 'distasteful drug habits' as Mycroft had once dubbed them, and there would probably be a time soon after when life became too much for me. Without my blogger, life could easily overwhelm me. When it did, not even Mycroft would be able to prevent the consequences.

I needed my doctor back, and soon.

* * *

**Ooh what do you guys think so far? Do you believe Sherlock will be able to talk sense into him? I'd love to hear your ideas! I already have a plan for where it's going to end but I'd like to see if there's another option that I haven't yet explored, you never know! Again, thank you so much for your lovely reviews, I read every one! I might start doing PM's if you leave any questions in your reviews. Hope you enjoyed!**


	11. Dead Man Walking

[Sherlock]

When you're trying so hard to concentrate, everything around you suddenly becomes an unwelcome distraction. Especially if you live in the particularly boisterous city of London. I'm sure that many normal people would have had the same problem, but sitting there in Lestrade's office and trying in vain to access my Mind Palace against the onslaught of noise around me was proving too much. I had no choice but to accept defeat when the DI opened the door, shattering what little progress I'd made. I growled in frustration, though this did nothing to deter him from placing a cup of tea in front of me and scolding me lightly for 'not taking care of myself'. I grumbled, but otherwise took the offering graciously. It was far too sweet, not at all how I liked it, but with a stern look from Lestrade I continued to sip it slowly.

The man in question leaned back in his chair and studied me, though I doubt he got anywhere near the amount of information that I did with only a quick glance at him. He looked older, more haggard than I'd last seen him, no doubt due to many more sleepless nights than he was used to.

"You need to have some sleep, you must be pushing 72 hours at least," I said gently, but he just laughed at my concern.

"That's a first," he grinned. "The great Sherlock Holmes, telling _me_ that I need to sleep more!" I scowled, but that only increased the size of that stupid smile he was wearing.

As suddenly as it had come on, his grin faded, replaced by that tired but determined look that seemed to have become his natural expression. I sat forward, suddenly interested, for it was obvious he had something important to tell me.

"Another body has been found, we think it might have been one of His employees." Lestrade said, and I suddenly didn't feel so eager. Normally it would have had me bouncing up and down with excitement (no, not literally), but since it most likely concerned John I really didn't want to be involved. I'd really hoped that knowing I was still alive would stop him from killing any more, but that didn't seem to be the case. I allowed myself a short stab of anger towards John in that moment, for all the crimes he'd committed, all those people he'd murdered, but not for very long. If I continued down that path of thinking, I would eventually have to accept that I was more to blame for this situation than he was. After all, it had been I who had left, who had allowed him to lose his mind in the confusion that followed. He couldn't be faulted for something out of his control.

I shoved all thoughts like that out of my mind, as I decided there was no point trying to establish what had gone wrong, and that I should instead be focussing on how to put things back to normal, or at least, more normal than they were currently.

I stood up, much to Lestrade's apparent surprise. He quickly followed suit, though it was obvious he had no idea what the action signified. "I need to see the body," I said simply. There was a small nod from his end, before he beckoned me to follow him as he left the office.

We were silent on the journey, he concentrated on driving and I attempted to think of a way to contact John. It didn't look like he wanted that much to do with me anymore, which, while sad, was also quite encouraging, as I'd have been more worried for his health if he'd wanted to play a Moriarty-style game. This at least showed he cared enough about me to stay out of my way. I realised that he hadn't sounded as insane as everyone had been making out when we'd talked, in fact he seemed rather in control, which was confusing. Surely my return would have made his insanity worse? It's not every day you see a dead man walking. Lestrade and Mycroft had both said that he had completely lost it after my death, but he had just sounded and acted like John to me, despite his unforgivable actions. Although, that being said, he had looked slightly feral when he'd been talking to Lestrade before I'd known exactly who he was. There was definitely something I was missing here, though I was determined to find out what it was, and soon.

We soon arrived at the crime scene of the man Lestrade had explained was called Harold Peters, and it had been discovered that the man had been leading a double life. Peters had worked in a respectable programming company by day, and was an experienced computer hacker by night, it seemed. He had been found in an alley no where near where he'd last been seen, and after one look I concluded he had not gone there willingly. There were no obvious signs of a scuffle, so he had been killed somewhere else and his body dumped in this location. I began to relay this information to John before remembering sadly that he was no longer working with me. Instead, I talked to Lestrade, but he didn't really encourage me in the same way John would have if he'd been there, so I stopped after a bit. Not for the first time, I wished my little blogger was beside me to bounce my ideas off, and to check the body for causes of death to prove my theories right. The medical team just didn't look for the right things, and were less inclined to share their findings with someone not on the police force.

I retrieved my phone from my pocket and set about looking up information on the newest victim. There were no immediate signs of his other life, but I knew what to look for and soon had a website address to check out further when I next found a computer. The question was, did he have any connection to John's crime network? It seemed so, but I wanted to be certain. Also, I wanted to know what the man had done that was so bad the only option was to be killed. Considering my ex-flatmate's reasons for the other murders he'd committed, I didn't think this man had deserved his fate. While I was contemplating my ideas, Lestrade came over and told me that they'd found his address. I jumped (again, not literally) at the chance to search his flat for clues surrounding his hacker life, and eagerly followed the DI back to his car. However, I was in for a disappointment.

I could tell something was wrong as we neared our destination. We both could. Smoke is a very good indicator of something being wrong, and no matter how much I kept hoping that we were mistaken, my luck didn't hold out. There was already a small crowd gathered along with the firemen to watch the great orange flames lick at the the block of apartments, and smoke was billowing out of every window. I heard Lestrade curse softly, and my spirits dropped when I realised there would be no evidence to find now. If it had been John's instructions, he was certainly thorough. He had been watching criminals for too long, and had apparently learned all their tricks when it came to matters such as these. No wonder the Yard had been unable to catch him.

The DI got out of the car and went to talk to some of the people in the crowd, no doubt looking for witnesses. I didn't bother. There was no point, it was obvious that none of them had seen anything, most people were completely unobservant when it came to situations like this. The culprit could have walked past with a container of petrol and a lighter and still have remained completely unquestioned by those around him. I doubted John himself had been here if this was his doing, he no doubt had lackeys to do the dirty work for him. That left me to wonder how he'd actually gotten into the criminal business, and how it had taken him so little time to make a name for himself. With a pang of sadness and regret I realised he must have been exceptionally good at unlawful activities, and with nothing to lose and everything to gain, he must have given it his best effort.

I left those thoughts behind as Lestrade returned to the car in a jog and started it up immediately. He looked breathless but quite happy, though I was certain he hadn't got any useful information out of the people he'd just been questioning.

"I just got a call from Dimmock," he said excitedly, and I felt my heart flutter in anticipation. "Apparently they've got a suspect back at the Yard who they're pretty certain was behind the arson attack. He refuses to talk, of course, but he's admitted he was part of it. I'll let you question him, if you like?" The offer was unexpected but very pleasing and I nodded eagerly. It was certainly more than I could have hoped for.

I didn't know whether to hope that John had been behind the attack or not. It would certainly bring me closer to finding him, but I wasn't sure I wanted him to be responsible for another murder.

That would only make it harder for me to change him back into the John we all knew and loved.

* * *

**Please review! It makes me happy, and I update longer chapters with more stuff in them if I'm happy! (No, this isn't blackmail. Much. I just like reviews, okay?) Thanks to everyone who has already reviewed, or even if you've just followed or favourited this story, it's you guys who have kept me posting every night without fail! And for all the guests who might be reading this but can't follow or favourite it, (I'm being optimistic here, I really don't know how many or few that might be) thank you too!**


	12. Interrogations

[Sherlock]

"He's in there," Inspector Dimmock gestured to the door, which I jogged over to. He rolled his eyes slightly at my eagerness, but I ignored him. This was far too good an opportunity, and I was not going to waste a second of it.

As I entered the room, my eyes scanned for every detail that I could gain which would help in the investigation. The room itself was small and well-lit, with an incredibly obvious two-way mirror that people on the other side could watch us from. It didn't really accomplish much, as anyone who'd ever seen an action film knew what it was. My gaze was caught by the man sat in front of me, who seemed very much to be the most stereotypical criminal I'd ever seen. He was well built but not overly tall, perhaps 5"11, and wore a black jacket and black jeans. The only thing missing was the black balaclava to match.

There was another chair across from him which I used, before leaning forward and analysing him . It was rather obvious he'd been involved, the smell of smoke wafting to me from his jacket could tell me as much. Not married, but used to be. Possibly three kids who no longer live with him, and a small dog that does. What surprised me was the look on his face when I'd entered the room. He'd looked terrified as soon as he'd seen me, as though he'd recognised me. I was certain I'd never seen his face before, but it was obvious he knew of me. It didn't look like he'd been that anxious about any of the Yard officer when they'd attempted to talk to him. I'd been told by Dimmock that they hadn't been able to get any information out of him whatsoever other than that he was involved. They wanted me to find out his name and motives, but I had other questions in mind that I deemed more important.

"Your boss. Who is he?" I growled. There was no time for niceties and patience when it came to getting information. The man flinched slightly under the intensity of my gaze, but said nothing.

"Tell me!" I shouted, but there was still no response, other than the fact the man's hands began to tremble slightly. I put my face up against his in what I hoped was an intimidating manner, but I only succeeded in catching a whiff of his foul breath. I turned away, desperately trying to think of another tactic, when he spoke.

"I can't tell you anything. I would if I could, as I hate what I've been doing for him, but it's not just my life at stake anymore..." I did not miss the mournful expression on his face when he said that, and suddenly his silence made sense.

"He's threatening your family," I said, and he nodded. I managed to let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding, and sat back against my chair thoughtfully. "You recognised me, when I walked in." I tried a different tactic, and this one didn't appear to be his favourite, either.

"Well, bugger," he said, and my hopes dropped. "I was told that you were good but I didn't believe him 'til now... Well, you already know pretty much what I'm going to say then, but I'll say it anyway for your friends' benefits." He gestured to the two-way mirror behind us, and I nearly smirked as I imagined Dimmock's face.

Sighing, he continued, "My boss told me that you knew him, showed me a picture of you an' told me not to answer any questions you asked, but that you'd probably figure out it was him anyways. Said I'd suffer for it if I did." This probably shouldn't have shocked me as much as it did, but knowing John gave this man information on me and told him not to talk to me was saddening, to say the least. What was worse, he was using this man's family against him to ensure he didn't talk.

I couldn't think of anything more to say, and I didn't want to get the man in trouble by forcing him to tell me anything, so I thanked him and got up to leave. Might as well let one of the Yard officers have their go. I was annoyed that I was no closer to finding my John, or helping him on the road to recovery, but I was sure it wouldn't be long until my next opportunity.

"Wait!" The man suddenly cried, and I stopped, uncertain of what it was he wanted from me. "Um, He said to tell you that he wants to organise a meeting soon, and that he'll be in touch." My heart leapt at the prospect of such a meeting, and I felt a small smile tug at the corners of my lips. Finally! I was getting somewhere. I nodded my thanks to the man and swept out of the room in a similar fashion to that of when I'd arrived, already organising ideas in my head.

No doubt John would either be trying to play a game with me, or was going to tell me to back off and leave him to his new work. I had to admit, a game would be interesting, just to see how much my death had affected him, but it really wouldn't help either of us in the long run. I began to fantasise about the possibility of him being already on the mend and trying to rekindle our friendship, but I knew that was a bit too much to hope for.

Just then, I heard my phone beep, signalling a text message. I felt a bit disappointed that John had not found a more extravagant way to send me a message, but I soon realised it didn't really make that much of a difference. It was the message itself that was important.

The message read:

**If convenient, please attend a meeting in the Lansborough Hotel dining room at 11am. Give your name at the desk and wear something suitable, for it is a rather luxurious hotel. I'll be seeing you. -JW**

I felt excited, but soon realised with horror that it meant I would have to ask Mycroft for money to buy suitable clothing. My depressing thoughts were interrupted by another alert from my phone, and I regarded the new message curiously.

**If inconvenient, come all the same. -JW**

I grinned. It seemed I had rubbed off on him a bit.

* * *

**So happy! This story has had over four thousand views, fifty two reviews, forty nine follows and twenty five favourites! That's so amazing! Plus, the story is only about half way thought, so just wow! Please keep reviewing, it makes me really excited when I get the alerts!**


	13. You Can

[Sherlock]

Well, last night had gone down as well as I could have hoped considering the relationship I had with my brother.

I had always tried wherever possible to avoid asking Mycroft for anything, but I really didn't have a choice. I required a change of clothes and somewhere to stay the night, both of which would be easy for a man of his economic position to provide, but I was loathe to ask him considering our argument just a few hours previously. I forced myself to call him since that was his preferred method, and though I'd never admit it to his face, I was rather relieved when he actually picked up the phone. I couldn't say I'd have done the same thing in his position.

The hardest part of the phone call had been when I'd apologised, since it wasn't something I normally did, but felt that if I wanted help from my brother that an apology was necessary. No matter the foul taste it left in my mouth when my brain finally realised I was saying sorry to _Mycroft_.

Surprisingly, he accepted the offered truce graciously, and was more than happy to comply with my wishes. I did not tell him about the message from John, but I was fairly certain he already knew. I really needed to get a phone that he couldn't bug beforehand. Then, just to make it all worse, my brother said something I hated him for. He really couldn't just leave things be, and had a habit of adding something to the end of a conversation before escaping so as not to feel my wrath.

The exact words he used were, "You know, brother, he really did make you a better man, in the end. I wish you all the best in your quest to return him to the way he was previously, and know that I will provide anything you might need to do so effectively. Goodbye." It was rather annoying to say the least, especially since he hung up on me as soon as he'd said goodbye, so I couldn't chastise him for ruining my evening. I was half tempted to not accept his help after all, but I realised my pride would just have to deal since I really needed what he was so helpfully offering me. The sneaky bastard.

Now, as I waited in the dining room of the Lansborough Hotel at ten to eleven, I felt suddenly quite nervous to see John again. He had chosen the spot well, as there were many people in the room that would be potential witnesses were anything to go wrong. I was far too hot in my new black dinner jacket, but at least I blended in to those around me. The room my brother had paid for was in that hotel, so I did not have to worry about transport and the possibility of being late, though I did not appreciate that the room was most likely one of the most expensive suites in London. My brother had obviously meant it as an apology for what he had said during our conversation, so I decided not to thank him for his generosity.

I was startled out of my thoughts by a small cough coming from in front of me, and I glanced up to see that John had arrived. He looked completely calm and unaffected by the people around him, who were throwing him some interested looks. It was no doubt the air of sophistication and wealth that he had brought with him, which I had never expected to see coming from the man who had always worn jumpers, even in summer, and who could barely pay the rent for Baker Street. I could not see his eyes under the dark sunglasses that he seemed to permanently be wearing nowadays, but his mouth was set in a hard line. It did not seem as though this would be a pleasant chat, then.

"You're early," he remarked, as he sat down opposite me. I shrugged, as I suddenly realised I had no idea what to say to him. To the man I had been happy to call my best friend, who's loyalty never failed to amaze me, who never doubted me when everyone else did.

"Lovely day today," he said, and suddenly I couldn't stand it any more.

"I've no patience for small talk, John. Please, if you would be so kind as to tell me why I'm here?" I couldn't stop the bitter edge that had strained my voice as I'd talked, no doubt the nerves had finally got to me. Not that I was nervous, no, not at all. Never.

John watched me for a few moments (or at least, I think he did, I couldn't quite tell behind those annoying glasses) before letting out a very unhappy sigh which did not sound in the least bit positive to me. Frankly, it worried me.

"Sherlock, I need you to listen very carefully to what I'm about to tell you." I leaned in, anxiously waiting to hear what he had to tell me that was so important. "I'm not the same person I was before all this. The people I surround myself with, they're dangerous. Hell, I'm* dangerous." That madness seemed to come back to him again quite suddenly as he continued, and he removed his glasses so I could see his dark gaze. "It's not that I don't like you, per se, it's just that I need a bit of space so that I can focus on my work at the moment." That annoying smirk was back on his face, and I felt deflated as I realised what he was trying to tell me.

"You want me to leave." I said sadly, and he nodded in agreement.

"Yes, I'd rather not hear from you again. It's all for the best, Sherly." I flinched when he used that name for me. I had to admit that he really sounded like Moriarty in that moment. It was not a good comparison.

I decided to make my move, to see if I could bring the real John out again. "Please, John. We both know you don't want this. This game you're playing, it doesn't lead anywhere good. We all change with bad news, but this is insane! You can't just sit there and tell me to leave! The John Watson I knew would not be doing something like this, and I know he's still in you, somewhere. So no, I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to stay and help you through this, because I know that I can. You will get better, I'll make sure of it. Just help me out here, and don't ask me to leave, because you know I won't." I had rushed a bit at the end, but I was certain I'd got my message across. I expected to see acceptance, or even humour in his expression, but I did not expect the anger I saw there.

"Don't you understand, you great idiot? I'm trying to save your arse here! I. Am. Dangerous. Are you too stupid to see that?! Being around me will get you killed! There's something wrong with me, and it means I could just snap and kill you with the slightest push of my temper. I can't control it, and so many people have died at my hand because of it. You would never be safe around me." His voice had gradually gotten louder as he'd become angrier, until he'd been practically screaming at me. We were both shocked by his outburst, and he looked away as I tried so very hard to process what he'd just said.

"I can't lose you again..." He suddenly whispered, and it broke my heart.

"John..." I started, but I couldn't find anything to say, so I left the word dangling between us. We were silent for a few minutes, and though I continued to watch him desperately, he didn't return my gaze. I decided that I needed to say something, _anything_, or there was a possibility I would lose him forever.

"I can help you, John. Let me help you." I pleaded with him, but he still didn't look up. I sighed and put my head in my hands. "This is all my fault..." I groaned, and this seemed to awaken him a bit from his thoughts. He leaned across the table, and I removed my hands from my face to watch him as he spoke.

"It's not your fault, Sherlock." I didn't believe him, but it was nice to see him like this again. "None of us could have predicted this, not you, not me, and certainly not anyone else. It's rather unfortunate, I'll give you that, but no one is specifically to blame for the situation." He held my gaze, and I could see small hints of my John in his eyes, which only fuelled my hope that all could be reversed.

"However, I can't go with you." I began to question him on this statement, but he cut me off with a small hand gesture.

"I didn't lie when I said I was dangerous, I mean just look at what happened to anyone who got too close to me..." I heard the tremor in his voice as he said that, and part of me longed to lean into him and tell him everything would be alright. But I couldn't. What he'd done to Mrs Hudson, Donovan, and nearly Mycroft was rather difficult to comprehend, and I couldn't lie to him. It wasn't okay, what he'd done. He recognised that from my silence at his statement, and sat back in his chair, nodding to himself.

"You can't forgive me for that, so how am I supposed to? You see now why I can't go back. I'd be reminded of my actions everywhere." He got up to leave, and I couldn't stop him. I couldn't do anything but watch him gather his things, and turn to give me one last look before he left.

"Don't come looking for me. I don't want you to." Then, he turned and walked away, leaving me confused and depressed and altogether unsure what this meant for our future.

* * *

**Ooh what do you guys think about that? Do you think Sherlock will be able to forgive him? That they'll ever have a life together again? I'd love to hear what you think is going to happen! It's so sad to write about John and Sherlock like this because they both seem so broken and lost, and not at all how they were for the first two series! Please review to tell me how you think my writing is, and whether you think the characters would really act like this in this particular situation! Oh, and I'm super excited because I've finally got to 50 followers! Thank you all, I'm so happy!**


	14. The Screams of Reason

[John]

_Don't turn around. Don't turn around. Don't turn around._

I repeated the mantra to myself as I forced my legs to move towards the door, away from Sherlock and the confusion that surrounded me whenever I now thought about him. My brain knew that this was the only option to keep him safe, but the thought didn't stop my heart from breaking when I walked away.

My entire being desperately wanted to return to his side and continue where we'd left off three years ago, but I was so conflicted that I could barely think straight. For one, _he'd left me_. No explanation, no warning, then he'd made me watch him die. Forced me to _watch_ as he slammed hard against the pavement, blood pouring from his head. It was an image that had been burned permanently into my retinas. How could he not realise that? Had he really just expected to waltz back into my life, all forgiven, and just carried on as normal?

Secondly, it didn't really look like he would ever be able to look me in the eye again. At the time, I had never regretted my actions against Mrs Hudson, Donovan, even Mycroft, but looking back now I could see why it frightened Sherlock. Three years ago I would have been repulsed by such a display from any criminal, and now I was standing here, walking away from the man I had called my friend, and still not fully regretting my actions. I was sad, and shocked, and very much in denial, but I wasn't really thinking enough about it to hate myself for what I'd done. I knew that if I really did accept my actions, there wouldn't be anything left of me. John Watson could never have lived with the guilt, so I wasn't even going to attempt to.

I got into the waiting car, still lost in my thoughts, though not enough to miss the fact that every CCTV camera was watching me. I smiled sadly at them, no doubt Mycroft would know of my and Sherlock's conversation soon enough. I tried not to picture his disapproving stare as the car sped away. No doubt that would only have led me on to think about Sherlock's broken gaze as I'd used my last winning piece on him. He couldn't forgive me for what I'd done, so how could he sit there and tell me to return with him? If I did get better (which I severely doubted) I would only then proceed to get worse after accepting my unforgivable actions. That was the only proper way to describe them, the only word that gave them justice. How would anyone I'd known be able to look at me again without hate in their gaze, let alone Sherlock? No, this was a much better way of handling things. By running away.

I had never thought of myself as the deserter type, but there really wasn't another way to do it. The cowardly act made my blood boil with anger and self-loathing, but it kept Sherlock safe from my wrath, and that was the important thing. It didn't improve my mood, though.

When I arrived back at my office (every criminal mastermind needs one) I began to rant to myself, which was probably the reason everyone stayed out of my way. I knew talking to myself wasn't going to help my sanity, but I was trying to block out any logic at that moment. That's probably why I didn't think before I threw the paperweight on my desk at the wall. It left a large dent, which caught my interest. I stopped my monologue of hate, and stepped closer. I realised that the action had felt good, and a small fraction of my anger had dissipated along with it. Before I could fully comprehend what I was doing, I had returned to my desk and taken hold of a mug, still filled with coffee (I no longer had the will to drink tea, it had reminded me too much of Him) and let go of it, sending it whizzing towards the far end of the office and shattering against the door. I began to giggle, but then the giggles turned into giddy laughter, which finally turned into a bout of crazy giggle-laughs that vibrated through my body. Suddenly I was rushing around and throwing anything I could at the walls, rejoicing in the sound it made as it smashed or cracked, and feeling the anger drain away to be replaced with adrenaline.

A small voice in the back of my head was telling me to stop, that this wasn't what Sherlock would have wanted me to do, but I drowned it out with more crashes as my objects found themselves flung through the air at great speeds. My John-voice, as I'd then dubbed it, was still screaming for me to stop, but he had no control, not like I did. More items went sailing through the air, and I began to growl under my breath as the anger came back at full force. It was too overpowering, and no matter how many things I broke, it was always there, waiting for me to lose control. I screamed in hatred, shoving my desk onto the floor with a loud crash, and sending paper flying everywhere. I kicked at it, so much anger and hatred and despair pouring out in the action.

_How-dare-he-do-this-to-me-how-could-he-just-leave- me-that-bastard-god-I-would-kill-him-if-he-was-her e-now..._

As I screamed and ranted, still kicking at the overturned desk, I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the opposite wall.

The cracks from where I'd destroyed object after object in my unquenchable fury did nothing to disguise my reflection. The reflection of a madman, a monster, a man so changed by grief and anger that I no longer recognised him.

His eyes blazed with fury, and his hands shook from barely restrained destructive tendencies, but I could see something underneath that saddened me to no end. Just a shadow in his confidence, but there nonetheless. A small frightened child, so unsure of the world around it, and with no one left to turn to. Broken, damaged, terrified. His eyes pleaded with me, and I couldn't take it any longer.

I sank to the ground, tears streaming down my face as I lost all control of my emotions. This anger had only made an appearance as a substitute for the despair and depression I'd felt knowing that Sherlock and I would never be companions again. How could he? My lack of control regarding Mrs Hudson had cost me dearly. I didn't deserve Sherlock's help or even his pity. I was evil. I no longer deserved to live.

Sitting there, on the floor of the office I had just destroyed, I made a decision. It was one I felt was the right thing to do, but I needed to prepare first. Just a few things, but then I'd be ready.

Ready to say goodbye.

* * *

**Hmm, as you've probably already realised, this story can go one of two ways. It can have a happy ending, or it can have a tearful, heart-wrenching ending. My question is which you would rather see, although I must warn you that I've already decided on the ending, and unless I get a lot of reviews requesting one way or another it will probably stay as the ending I've decided on! But I'd like to see what people look for in an amazingly well thought-out end to a story they've awaited an exciting ending to from the first chapter (I hope...) Please tell me, I'm really interested! Thank you! Oh, by the way, if any of you guys have a Tumblr account, add me! My username is **_dangerousbliss_**, and I'll always follow back!**


	15. Incapable

**I've decided to dedicate this chapter to sherdocwho for the conversation on Tumblr last night, you're amazing! Enjoy!**

[Sherlock]

I don't remember moving from that table after John left, but I must have moved unconsciously, for I soon found myself back in my hotel room. I was still reeling from what had been said, and John's last words to me kept bouncing around inside my head.

_"Don't come looking for me. I don't want you to."_

Had he really meant that? I had been fairly certain before our meeting that he would respond positively to the prospect of being in my life again, but that didn't seem to be how he'd taken it at all. Though, I had to admit, I had started to glimpse the old John increasingly more as the conversation went on, until that stupid moment where I'd hesitated. If I hadn't done that, if I had said I would be able to forgive him, he wouldn't have walked out on me. Everything could have gone much more smoothly.

However, I wasn't sure yet if that would have been a lie. Would I ever be able to forgive him? Until this moment I had grudgingly accepted that it wouldn't be so, but the more I thought about it, the more I realised I couldn't blame him. No one can really be blamed for the state of their mental health, and John certainly couldn't be. After all, he hadn't been the one to jump off a building and force his best friend to watch. Therefore, logically, if anyone was to be blamed, it would be me. Or perhaps Moriarty, as it was much easier to decide to blame him than myself, and he couldn't exactly contradict me considering his deceased state.

I would not back down, no matter what John wanted. He needed me as much as I'd needed him in my life. I knew exactly how to deal with unwilling participants, I'd been one my whole life.

That little burst of hope had me jolting up from the bed where I'd been perching and grabbing my coat. I needed to send a message to John, telling him that I did forgive him. Maybe then he would finally see reason, and come back with me. I darted through the hotel hallways and out the lobby until I was on the street, and I felt almost consumed by determination. My scarf flew behind me as I sprinted to the nearest taxi and hopped in, telling the cabby to drop me outside the Diogenes Club, where I was sure my brother would be situated.

I retreated into the outer layers of my mind palace as we drove, and I began to formulate a plan. John had sent me a text before, and unless he had somehow gained a much more impressive intellect in the space of three years, he would not have bothered to dispose of the phone, making it traceable. It would be a simple matter to track the phone, find John, and force him to admit that he needed my help. He couldn't possibly refuse, and I wouldn't hear any of that nonsense about him being dangerous-

My thoughts were cut off as the car suddenly screeched to a halt, and I slammed into the seat in front at the sudden change. My mind was bleary, and though I tried desperately to organise my thoughts, the impact had left me dizzy and disorientated. My vision swam confusingly, and I could taste the tell-tale flavour of blood in my mouth from where I'd bitten my tongue. I sat back, unable to do much else, and then my car door opened. A strong pair of hands gripped my arm and dragged me out onto the road, where my shaky legs threatened to buckle so I had no choice but to lean into the man who had grabbed me. He stank of sweat and blood, which was never a nice combination, and something told me that he was not a nice man. Maybe it was the way he ferociously manhandled me into another waiting car while simultaneously growling in my ear to stay silent. It was impossible to know for sure.

By the time the door had shut behind me I had most of my senses back, and was fully aware of the fact I was in the middle of a kidnapping. I tried to attack the man sat next to me, but my movements were sluggish and ineffective. There was no way to defend myself as he produced a syringe and proceeded to shove it into my arm in a very dodgy manner.

The drug was reasonably quick to take effect, but that didn't stop me from sounding like a complete idiot for about twenty seconds. I think I may have given him an eye roll and told him where he could stick his needle next time. I may also have told the man that my brother would save me when he stopped eating so much cake. He probably started laughing at that point, but I was too much of a mess to care about such things.

The next time I regained consciousness, I was tied to a chair in a dark little room and my head hurt like hell. I groaned from the pain, which also succeeded in alerting my captors that I was awake. One man wandered over from where he'd been watching me, and I forced my eyes to focus on his face and memorise every detail that could help me escape. He was reasonably tall, with greying hair and calloused hands that suggested he had seen more than his fair share of fights.

"Mister Holmes, a pleasure to finally meet you," he sneered, and I couldn't have stopped the expression of distaste I gave him if I'd tried. Like his henchmen, this man had apparently never heard of soap. I decided that opening my mouth would be unwise, as an appropriate quote of John's came to mind, 'Let's give smart-arse a wide berth, shall we?'

Needless to say, my captor did not take being ignored well, and smacked me over the head, not enough to hurt, but certainly enough to shock. I blinked a few times, but still remained silent. He grabbed my head with one chunky hand and drew me closer so that I had no choice but to look at him as he spoke.

"That friend of yours, Mister Watson, has really gotten on my nerves these last few months. Nobody comes to me for business anymore, and that bloody bastard seems to have all the fame nowadays. He'd better stop, or I might just hurt that pretty face of yours..." He had obviously thought out that speech of his word for word, and he had probably practiced it beforehand, meaning to scare me. I could barely restrain the eye roll. This guy obviously hadn't done his research.

"So you take the time out of your busy schedule to stalk me, crash my taxi, kidnap me, and all because you're jealous of John? That seems to be the most idiotic thing I've ever heard! So, now what? You plan to send him a video of me all tied up in this chair, in this dingy basement, and tell him that if he doesn't just give up that you'll kill me?" The incredulous look on his face told me I was right. What an amateur. "Even a three year old could have come up with a more interesting scheme! I'm insulted to be here in your presence."

I realised soon after, that considering I was tied to a chair in a room full of armed criminals, my insults could have been timed better. This man seemed to have more anger issues than John. He fumed for a few minutes in silence, and I could see his hand twitch to where he must have been keeping his gun, but fortunately he must have realised I was more use to him alive.

"Keep him drugged. I don't want to kill him yet, but if he says anything else..." The man trailed off before exiting the room with all the pride he could muster, and I sighed as I realised I would not be escaping anytime soon. Unless Mycroft came to save the day, which was rather likely. If anything, I would have expected him already.

I ignored the sting of the needle in my arm, and tried to allow for this annoying but brief setback for my overall plan in trying to help John.

Considering the incompetence of this group of criminals, I doubted that I'd be here longer than a couple of hours. Therefore, I sat back and let the darkness consume me with little fuss, and all the while I thought about John. Everything would be alright.

**Please review! It makes me happy! I was excited when I got all the response about how you wanted it to end, and I'm now pretty happy with the one I've decided! I just hope you guys will like it... Don't worry, there's still quite a few chapters to go yet!**


	16. Organised Chaos

**Hello there! Sorry it's been so long, but as those who've read my other fic Faults of the Heart know that I've been on hiatus for the last few weeks because of my exams. The only reason I was able to post any of this fic at all was that it was mostly written up to this point on my computer, but I couldn't write any more due to a lack of extra time... Anyway, you'll be glad to know that tomorrow is my last exam so I'll have lots of extra time for writing after that! I'll try to give you more warning next time, like I'm going to San Francisco soon (yaay) so I won't be able to post for a couple of weeks then. Sorry about my blabbing, here's the next chapter! I gift you with a bit of bamf John, enjoy :3**

* * *

[John]

The silence was beautiful. Blissful, dangerously so. There was chaos splayed all around me in the form of broken objects, scattered like my thoughts had been when I had lost control just hours ago. Now, though, my mind was no longer racing, and I could fully appreciate the tranquility that had overcome my body. It was funny really, that everything in the room was broken and scattered, including myself, and like the shattered remnants of the useless possessions I had no hope of being fixed.

I had taken up a seated position in the middle of the floor, as I decided it would help me to think. I was at the centre of this storm of madness, the eye you might say, and my own eyes were shut to prevent unnecessary distractions. My thoughts were organised and rational in my own mind, and I would gladly have stayed there for the rest of my existence, except there was work to be done. I was happy in the solitary I had allowed myself, and there was no one I would rather have spent that moment with than myself. Except Sherlock. Dammit, it was always Sherlock, and he always made me act irrationally, though mostly unintentionally. The man was like no one else, and although many, no, everyone, had believed that I had kept him away from drugs and reverting into a complete sociopath, they didn't realise that he had helped me too. Even I hadn't realised, not until just a few hours ago when all my resolve had been broken down in a fit of madness that only a psychopath could manage. That was the best word to describe what I'd become after he'd "died". A murderous, insane, monstrous psychopath. My only redeeming quality was that I was willing to accept the fact, and although I wouldn't be able to move on, at least I could acknowledge it.

I heard footsteps from down the hallway, but I didn't bother to open my eyes or even turn towards the door. If I ignored them and continued to drift lazily in my semi-conscious state of mind, they might decide whatever they needed to inform me of wasn't that important after all. However, that wasn't what happened. Not even close.

The door opened quite inaudibly, but I had long since trained myself to find even the smallest whisper of sound. It was indefinitely helpful, especially in the criminal business. I heard a small intake of breath, no doubt due to the destruction of the room around me and my frankly odd position in the midst of it. I waited for them to retreat, to run cowardly away rather than face me for something unimportant. They didn't, so either they were a fool, or it really was something I needed to hear.

"Sir, our surveillance team just picked up a commotion regarding Mr Holmes."

I opened my eyes. After staring unseeingly at the wreckage around my person I turned to the door and found the face of one of my employees. "A commotion?" I asked, and though I was certain I did not betray a hint of emotion, he flinched under my gaze.

"He's been abducted, Sir. We tracked the destination of the vehicle he was taken into, and we have a location. I can send a team to retrieve him if you want?"

I pondered this new information, letting the notion settle in my brain before I answered. There was no certainty that a team would get the job done without injury, and I didn't want to take any shortcuts regarding Sherlock's safety. I had lost him once, and I would not be going through the same pain again. Who knew what it would do to me.

"Get my equipment ready. And a small team, just for back-up. I probably won't need them but its good to be prepared." I flashed the man a grin, and I could have sworn he paled slightly. After a quick nod in my general direction he fled from the room.

That left me alone to wonder what mess Sherlock had managed to get himself into in the space of just a few short hours. The man just couldn't stay out of trouble. Sighing, I got up from the floor and cracked my knuckles. I didn't really see the point of such an action, but in films it seemed to be somewhat intimidating, which was the demeanour I really needed at that moment. I surveyed the room, and found I quite liked the assortment of objects as they were. Organised chaos, if such a thing truly existed.

I stalked out of the door and down the stairs to the lobby, where I was pleased to see my requests had been assembled. When the unit saw me they lowered their gazes and walked stealthily towards the waiting cars, though one stayed behind to help me with my weapons. I was no stranger to guns, but having so many at one time was quite exhilarating, and I could feel the adrenaline already thrumming through my veins.

I couldn't stop the excited twitch in my hand as we neared the building, and I wondered if Sherlock's captors had any idea what was coming to them. Ideally not, that would make it all the more fun. I chastised myself for using 'fun' to describe such a prospect, but found that I couldn't think of a better way to do so. Soon, we arrived, and I got a good first look at the building. Frankly, I thought that a group of criminals with the means and motives to kidnap Sherlock Holmes really could have come up with a better location. It was made from a disgusting grey concrete, with boarded-up windows and graffiti covering most of the first storey. I smirked, unable to stop such an action from taking place.

I felt the change come over my body, and the others must have too. I straightened and my hand stopped twitching towards my gun. All emotions drained from me as I focused, and I walked with purpose towards the door. To the men I was accompanied by I probably looked like a predator stalking its prey as I grew closer to my destination. The door didn't stand a chance, and neither did the two men guarding it. They didn't even have time to shout for help.

Nothing was going to get in my way.

I moved silently down the hallway, killing those I passed with the ease of a practiced killer, an all without removing the gun from my holster. Just a quick snap, and they were gone from the world. Not once did the expression on my face change, and rightly so. There was no childish glee now that I was inside, and the killing had only just begun. If Sherlock was hurt... Well, someone would be taking the blame.

Too soon I was at the top of the stairs leading down to the basement, and as I peered into the darkness I grinned slightly. The darkness certainly didn't scare me. People feared the absence of light because it meant they couldn't see the scary monster or raging psychopath. Since I was both, there was no reasonable argument for why I should be frightened.

I descended into the inky blackness.


	17. The Silence and the Darkness

[Sherlock]

As I slowly ascended into consciousness, disjointed colours and sounds overwhelmed me and it took my brain far too long to determine their meaning. The drug had left me in a haze where little made sense, and I struggled to come to a conclusion on both my whereabouts and how I had managed to find myself in such a dismal location. Eventually my thoughts finally made sense and I remembered all from the last few days. The memories were not pleasant.

My captors seemed to have lost motivation, and were frantically whispering to one another, eyes darting around in fear and disbelief. Ah, so Mycroft had arrived then. It had taken my dear brother long enough, especially considering what a frightfully terrible job my kidnappers had done. They seemed to be in a panic, and though my brain had not yet managed to turn the confusing echoes into actual conversation, it was clear they had not been expecting an attack. I smiled thinly to myself. This whole experience had been a rather unwelcome distraction from my current predicament of John's attitude to human beings, and I could only hope that Mycroft would hurry up in his rescue. I really didn't have the time to waste just sitting there rolling my eyes at the stupidity of the people I surrounded myself with.

When I was finally able to translate sounds into words I found that my suspicions were confirmed. They were talking about how their armed guards had all been killed soundlessly just seconds ago, by one man it seemed. If I had been able to I would have laughed, it was frankly hilarious that these men could be stopped by one of my brother's lackeys, and all without firing a shot!

I must have moved slightly, as the man I'd had such a lovely conversation with before he managed to drug me senseless came over. I sneered at him, at his cowardice as he left his small group of guards by the door, ready to be slaughtered while he came to use me as a piece of blackmail. Pathetic. I tried to tell him as much, but with the drug still in my system it came out more like "paffic". Still, he seemed to get the message.

After grabbing me and hauling me up from the chair I'd been draped over, he began to furiously whisper in my ear. "Listen here you bastard, you tell that friend of yours that no harm's gonna come to me, got it? Otherwise I'll blow your bloody brains out!" He brandished a small silver gun, and I checked it over carefully. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to be bluffing, as the gun did contain four bullets. Plenty to kill a man.

I was about to attempt to communicate the fact that I was in no position to talk when what he'd said caught my attention. Friend? I didn't know any of Mycroft's employees, and I certainly wouldn't call the man himself a friend. Surely the man would have used the term brother? Certainly he would have done enough research on me prior to the kidnapping to know of my relation to Mycroft? It didn't make any sense.

Quite suddenly, all noise stopped. Both my captor and I turned to the doorway at the same time (though my turn was significantly less successful) to come to terms with what was going on. The group by the door had frozen in panic and confusion from a single sound that came from behind the closed door.

The simple tapping of feet descending the stairs. Steady, and more surprisingly, singular. Only one man came towards us, one man to take on the group of armed men guarding the door. This man was brave, for not once did he falter in his rhythm, and he did not take any measures to conceal the sound of his footsteps. He wanted us all to hear him coming, for us to know that the sound of guns being prepped did not scare him, nor the promise of resistance on the other side of the door.

As the man, or woman, it was impossible to tell, drew nearer, I could practically see the resolve of the men in front of me weaken, and as the fear set in they could no longer hold their guns steady. Just when I was sure the door was going to open, the echoing footsteps abruptly ceased, and a thick silence filled the room once more. When no attack came after thirty seconds, my kidnappers began to show signs of confusion, though I only felt curiosity. This person obviously had a very quick mind, and knew how to completely overwhelm their opponents.

After a few more seconds, one of the men by the door felt the need to slowly open it, keeping himself out of the way in case the mysterious threat happened to just have stopped on the other side. However, it was easy to see that there was no one there, even in the limited visibility of the hallway, nor the stairs leading up from it. Now more uneasy, the men slowly began to creep into the darkness, leaving only a couple in the room with me. I watched, intrigued, as the small group of men appeared to find no trace of any man, and though it was too dark for me to see more than their outlines I was certain there would have been doubt etched on their features.

That's when the screams began.

One after the other, the group members fell to the ground, the only sounds being the strangled groans that escaped them, and the crack as their necks broke. Soon there was only one silhouette still standing in the hallway, and it was immediately obvious that this was the unseen attacker. The way he held himself, so straight and confident, was menacing. How he stepped over the bodies as he came towards us was graceful, and the way he stalked forward reminded me of a panther creeping in for the final, glorious kill.

I watched his movements with quiet awe, and his presence seemed to have an adverse affect on the two remaining men by the doorway, as they retreated back to the far wall, leaving the way clear for the man to come and retrieve me. My captor still held me upright in his arms with the gun in his hand, but he seemed unsure, and not certain he wanted to die in such a way. I didn't blame him.

"Stay back!" He warned the mysterious man who had taken to watching us from the shadows of the hallway. With a barely perceptible move, the man fired two shots, though they were not meant for the man holding me hostage. Both shots hit their targets, and the two guards fell against the back wall where they had been cowering, dead before they hit the ground.

It seemed as though that was the moment my kidnapper realised he had lost, and that there was little hope for him. He dropped me abruptly, and with no strength to rely on I collapsed to the floor. I was disorientated, and had no choice but to lie there and wait for the inevitable. There were a few sounds as my captor tried his hardest to beg for forgiveness and his life, but too soon came the sound of a gunshot, and the thump as his body hit the floor behind me. It was over.

I began my attempt at getting up, and was surprised when I heard the footsteps of my saviour get closer until they were right next to me. I felt strong hands help me upright, and I leaned in to the warmth of his body, still unable to open my eyes. I didn't need to, I had figured out who it was anyway.

"Thank you." I whispered.

"You're welcome." John said.

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I have now officially finished my exams, which is why you guys get another update so soon! Please review, as I've said so many times before, it makes me happy! **


	18. Gradually Brightening

[John]

As that stupid, insignificant man begged for his life having just let go of Sherlock, I was overcome by an immense amount of anger. Although, thinking about it, anger was not the word I would have used to describe the hot fury that was making my blood boil. It didn't even begin to cover what I felt in that moment, but i didn't exactly have the time to come up with a better one. I almost smiled in glee as I raised my gun and shot the bastard, but I felt any show of emotion would ruin the moment, so I kept my face blank. To think that he had attempted to keep Sherlock down there in that dismal room, away from all he knew, was sickening, and I cursed Mycroft for not keeping a better eye on the detective. Frankly I was surprised and completely disappointed that Mycroft had not yet shown up with a rescue party, but it was probably for the best as I didn't know how he would react to me being there. Maybe he would have one of his men 'accidentally' shoot me in the head, though I doubted Sherlock would be very happy with him.

After the light left the criminal's eyes and his body hit the ground, I saw Sherlock was attempting to stand. Pride had always been one of his weaknesses, and even though we could both tell he was under a heavy amount of drugs, he did not want to lower himself by asking for my help. I rolled my eyes and walked closer, pulling him up and allowing him to use my body as a means of support. He didn't look at me, but I was sure he knew who I was as he leaned in closer to me, and I felt him shaking slightly from the chill in the room. It made me wish I could offer him some sort of comfort, but I didn't have an extra jacket and I thought bringing him closer to me would just be awkward.

"Thank you," he said suddenly, distracting me from my thoughts, and he said it so softly that I almost didn't catch it. I wasn't completely sure how to respond, as I hadn't expected such a show of gratitude. The detective was famous for his lack of manners, and I was certain he'd never really meant any of his quick 'thank you's, not like this anyway. I attempted to play it cool with a low "You're welcome," but it sounded so corny that I had to chuckle slightly. Sherlock's head had been against my shoulder until that point, but the vibrations from my laughter caused him to raise it and stare into my face, taking in every detail and no doubt deducing all my little secrets. He must have been satisfied with what he found because he grinned at me with that crooked smile of his.

"That was pretty impressive you know," he said and I couldn't help but return his smile with one of my own.

"They had it coming," I replied simply, and his smile fell a bit. A look of sadness passed through his eyes but was gone before I could interpret it. There was a moment of silence where we both considered what we were going to say to one another, before Sherlock finally filled the room with his deep baritone.

"What happens now?" He asked quietly, and I let out a frustrated sigh. There was nothing I would have loved more than to go with him, but as my breakdown just hours before had shown, I was not fit to be around society anymore. I attempted to tell him this but he interrupted me half way through my explanation.

"Look, John! I don't want to hear any of this about how you're dangerous and shouldn't be around me. I'm a grown man as I have demonstrated multiple times before, and I can take care of myself-"

"Evidently," I said drily. He chose to ignore my comment.

"I can help you. You get better every time you're around me, and this whole situation is proof that you still respect and even care for me. Sometimes, yes, I need protection, but you can provide that! No one in their right minds would attack me with you around." His eyes pleaded with me, and I felt my heart melt just a bit with that familiar look.

"You know why I can't, Sherlock." It hurt me to have to spell it out for him, and annoyed me that I needed to do it again, but if it would stop him from trying to convince me to go back with him then I would do it. "I killed Mrs Hudson. I hurt Donovan. I attempted to execute Mycroft in front of a crowd, for goodness sakes! I can't forgive myself for my actions, and you just proved you can't either! Can't you see that?" I was on the verge of tears now, but Sherlock just looked even more determined, and even slightly smug.

"John, you cannot have possibly expected to be in your right mind after my death, and considering what I jumped off St Barts while making you watch, I am as much to blame as you are in this situation. We will work through this. Years ago, when you first found me, my life was slowly descending back downhill, and I surely would have returned to the drugs again sooner or later. However, you and your silly little jumpers changed that for me and I couldn't have been happier. You saved me, and now I feel it's time for me to return the favour. Please, let me do so." His voice was barely at a whisper by the end, but his words still had me frozen in place. The speech had moved me, and just for a second I allowed myself to consider the impossible. I considered returning with Sherlock, attempting to resume our previous lives before his fall, and realised something. I realised that I had never wanted something so much as I wanted to be John Watson again, loyal flatmate and best friend to the incredible Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.

And so, with that in mind, I made the best and probably worst decision of my life.

"Okay," I said.

* * *

**Oh dear! All I could think of while writing this chapter was 'Stop making it so fluffy! We are not going for Johnlock here!' But I just couldn't help it! Don't worry for those of you who don't like that kind of thing, this story will be purely friendship based, as I have no extensive knowledge of relationships in general! And don't worry, this is not the end, in fact there's probably at least another five chapters depending on where I take this, and I shall give you one spoiler that will hopefully make you squeal in anticipation:**

Moriarty. 


	19. Of Times Long Forgotten

[Sherlock]

_"Okay."_

Well, I had certainly not expected John to agree so readily. Then again, I had made an incredibly good argument, and I was not about to complain about his sudden compliance. I allowed my eyes to light up in glee, and John half returned my smile, though he still looked unsure as to whether he had made the right decision.

I was pleased that he had finally accepted my help, but it was still going to affect our lives considerably. Too many people knew about John's murderous tendencies, and certainly would not accept him considering what he'd done in my absence. Hopefully Mycroft would be able to help clear his name partway, however it would be impossible to bring back the easy relationship John had had with those he knew. Scars would be left permanently, and the wariness of former friends could be diminished, but never completely destroyed. Still, we would be able to live in a way very similar to that before my fall, and I didn't need other friends so long as I had John. We would be fine.

Footsteps and shouts sounded out from the floor above us, and I rolled my eyes as I realised my brother had finally made an appearance. I turned to face John and found him biting his lip nervously. I felt it was an improvement over trying to kill Mycroft, at least. The man in question chose that moment to make his way lazily down the stairs, swinging his umbrella and whistling a tune quietly, all the while scoping out the sights in front of him and mentally preparing for possible conflicts. I was still leaning on John, but I attempted to straighten myself in order to appear less vulnerable than I was feeling. My brother certainly didn't show any wariness about seeing me with John, but then again it was impossible to tell what he was thinking unless he wanted to let you know. Even then, he could only be showing you what he wanted you to see.

"Brother," he greeted me, and I nodded rather than let him hear my slurred words. He turned to John, who was looking more anxious by the second. I couldn't say I blamed him.

"You seem a lot more stable, Doctor Watson. I suspect it was you who organised this little stint to help retrieve my brother? Rather impressive, if I do say so myself." Mycroft continued to watch John for any sign of aggression, but after finding none, he smiled in my direction as though to congratulate me on John's apparent recovery. I didn't return the smile, but I didn't glare at him either, which was the nicest thing I could have done in the situation. However, I soon became alert as I recognised a look that my brother was now giving John. It wasn't hard to guess what he wanted.

"I'm sure you'll be happy to know I'm not going to press charges, and I will not demand your immediate arrest considering I find that your recovery will go that much more smoothly around my brother rather than a large number of psychiatrists." Here it came. John also seemed to realise something was going on and stiffened. "However, I feel that my generosity would be best repaid in the form of your services where I require them." I growled at Mycroft but he continued, either not hearing me, or, more likely, deciding to ignore me completely.

"What you did here, completely by yourself, it seems, was truly remarkable. I doubt even one of my best trained employees could match such a feat, and I have a very great need of people with such a particular set of skills. Don't worry, I will let you settle back into your life with Sherlock before I come calling, but I will almost certainly need your help soon. Good day to you both." With that, he turned and left the room, apparently not needing an answer. It was obvious what John would choose by the look on his face. There was defeat there, but a slight look of relief that the situation was not more severe.

"Well, that could have gone worse." I noticed the small smile on his lips and smirked in agreement. John began to walk towards the stairs and I leaned on him to keep myself upright as we made our way slowly out of the building.

Outside, there was not a soul since Mycroft and his team had already left, but we both knew Lestrade and the Yard officers would soon arrive. I didn't know how they would react to John's presence, and he apparently didn't want to find out. I wondered about getting a taxi, but a black car soon rolled up from its position in the shadowy alley next door and stopped in front of us. After a quick inspection I decided I was 98.64% sure that it was one Mycroft had left for us to return to Baker Street, and I quickly shared my suspicions with John.

"Do you need to go and get anything?" I asked once we were seated, and I felt fairly pleased when he shook his head. No ties to his other life, then.

"I need to call my, uh... Work... To, uh... Let them know that I no longer require my employees', uh, services..." He seemed rather hesitant to refer to anything regarding his criminal network, and I wasn't sure if it was a good sign or a bad one.

I told him not to worry, and stared out the window at passing traffic as he made the call and arrangements. I wasn't surprised that he immediately passed the management on to his second in command, though I couldn't reject the idea that I was disappointed in him. Some small part of me must have hoped that he would disband his network, but it didn't look as though this was the case. Needless to say, the person on the other end of the phone did not sound very happy with John's resignation, and a lot more profanity was used in the single conversation than I thought possible.

As he finally ended the call, John sighed, but it seemed to be more in relief than regret. I gave him my best encouraging smile, but since I had never attempted one before it was impossible to tell how effective it was. John didn't laugh at me, so I could safely presume it wasn't a complete disaster.

Soon after that we pulled up outside 221B. I had to wait for John to come round and help me out as the drug was still affecting my balance, but I didn't mind. His presence was enough to help me find the drive to make it to the stairs and enter, even though it must have been hard for him. The hallway had Mrs Hudson written all over it, and for a few moments I was sure it was me holding John up and not the other way around. I pretended to ignore the tears I saw in his eyes, and apparently he did too, as he quickly wiped his face and determinedly continued up the stairs to our old flat.

Walking in was eerie, as while it was obviously our flat, at the same time it wasn't. There was dust covering every surface, and boxes filled presumably with my belongings were littered about. It was painfully obvious that John had not returned here after my death other than to collect a few necessities, leaving Mrs Hudson to pack away everything that would not be used again. She must have given up half way through, as there were many stray items still out on the desk and shelves, and without use they had become grey from the collection of dust.

I managed to make it to the desk without help from John, who was still frozen in place no doubt due to an onslaught of painful memories. Once there I picked up my old magnifying glass and carefully wiped it until it was free from grime. I cradled it gently in my hands and stared at it, considering all the wonderful times John and I could have had if Moriarty had not become involved in our lives. It was the first time I had properly allowed myself to consider such things since my demise, and to say that it didn't upset me would have been a lie.

I heard footsteps as John broke from his trance and came over to stand beside me. "There's a lot of work to do," he said, and I couldn't help but notice the slight tremor in his voice.

"Most certainly," I agreed, still distracted by the object in my hands. I finally turned away from it to look at him and gave him my trademark smirk.

"Let's get to it," I said.

* * *

**Wow! I'm at over 90 reviews! That is so amazing, and I have to thank all you lovely reviewers! Please keep reviewing, it would make my entire year to get to 100 before this story is finished! I can guarantee that it will only get more exciting and more tense from here, ooh if only you knew what I'm planning!**


	20. Far from Normal

**Hi guys sorry I haven't updated for a few days but it was my birthday yesterday so I spent my week planning the party, leaving no time for writing! Anyway, here you go, please review! Reviewers get to join the awesome party that is my list of reviews, and if I really like a review I might mention you in the next chapter! Love you all!**

* * *

[John]

Even after the hours of work we had put into making the flat liveable again, it still didn't feel cosy or anything like it had been three years ago. The dust had disappeared and the boxes had been unpacked, but the place still had the musty and slightly dreary atmosphere of somewhere abandoned. It wasn't as though I'd expected everything to automatically return to normal after my decision to remain with Sherlock, but I had never imagined how drastically changed my life would still be.

I put the kettle on to attempt an air of normality, but I had no choice other than to admit defeat when it wouldn't even turn on. I would have done anything for a biscuit right then, but I was to be disappointed as I soon realised there was absolutely nothing edible anywhere in the flat. I mentally kicked myself once I remembered that no one had been living there for nearly three years, and I growled in frustration since it meant either I or Sherlock would have to go shopping soon. The problem was that Sherlock would undoubtedly put up a fuss and object to even going inside a supermarket, and there wasn't any certainty that he would actually return with food. It wasn't as if _I_ could go, though. People would recognise me more than Sherlock, and definitely not in a good way. We would either have to go without food for a while and probably suffer a painful hunger-related death, or we could enlist the help of Mycroft, who I was certain would be more than willing to cooperate provided I agreed to his job offer. The thought made me shudder, but it wasn't as if I had another choice.

I returned to the comfort of the sitting room muttering halfheartedly about what a manipulative ass Mycroft was. Sherlock appeared to have found his violin and was making the occasional sound over by the window while deep in thought. I sat heavily on the chair that used to be mine, and began to regret such a rash decision when a cloud of dust rose up to envelop me, prompting a lot of coughing and a sneezing fit. My flatmate (how good it felt to call him that again) appeared to take no notice, though I could have sworn he cracked a smile at my foolishness. He began to play what I guessed was one of his own compositions, and I relaxed back into my seat to listen. He was quite obviously only playing to put me at ease, but it was working so I was not going to object. I felt my eyelids begin to shut and did not try to prevent such an action, knowing that I really needed a few hours of sleep before I would even be able to begin to figure out, well, _everything_.

Sherlock's sudden halt jerked me back into consciousness, and as my foggy brain attempted to figure out what was going wrong I heard multiple footsteps coming up the stairs. There were a couple of muffled shouts that I couldn't quite make out, which only increased my anxiety, and then one voice I could hear very clearly which left me in a state of blind panic.

"Sherlock, John, we know you're in there," a very familiar man said, and I stood up and pulled a face at Sherlock, unsure what to do. "I'm going to give you four seconds to open this door, or we're going to break it down, you hear me?" I was still frozen, completely uncertain what the correct reaction would be, but thankfully I had Sherlock. He leapt forward and fluidly opened the door, stepping back to allow the group inside.

Lestrade came first closely followed by Donovan, and the way she glared hatefully at me let me know that all had definitely not been forgiven. Sherlock retreated to stand by my side, and put his hands up in a non-threatening gesture which I mirrored. The officers seemed to relax, but Lestrade still looked very weary and not at all happy with the situation.

"You're under arrest Dr Watson, for the murder of Mrs Hudson, and many others, along with the attempted murders of Sargent Donovan and Mycroft Holmes, and many other crimes. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say or do will be held against you in court." Donovan chose that moment to produce a pair of handcuffs and stepped forward, ready to wrap them around my wrists. However, Sherlock intervened before she had the chance.

"Lestrade, John was not well at the time of those occurrences. He is doing much better now that he is in my care, and taking him away would almost certainly damage all the progress we've made so far." Lestrade didn't even bother to look annoyed with him.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but what John did was very wrong, and according to the law I have to take him to prison, whether or not he did it knowingly. The best we can hope for is that he's declared mentally unstable in court. I'm sorry." Sally stepped forward again and this time attached the cuffs to my wrists, much to my displeasure. I shot my friend a scared look, and he turned desperately to plead with Lestrade again.

"Look, my brother has already told us that if John runs some errands for him that his record will be wiped, so there is no reason-" Sally interrupted Sherlock mid-explanation to let out a sound of outrage at the prospect.

"That's bloody ridiculous!" She shouted, glaring at both me and Sherlock with equal looks of fury. "Just because his brother's all high and mighty Mr British Government, doesn't mean that anyone should be able to get away with _murder,_ let alone this bastard!" She continued, gesturing at me.

Lestrade looked a bit confused as to what to do for a few seconds, but eventually shook his head as though the action would clear it. "I'm still going to have to take you to the Yard, John." He said, finally turning to look me in the eye for the first time since entering the room. I felt my stomach drop, but kept on a brave face and nodded cooperatively, ignoring Sherlock's sounds of annoyance.

Sally began to drag me towards the door and I turned to give Sherlock one last half smile before they took me away. I wanted to thank him for the last couple of days, for all he'd wanted to do to help me, but I just thought it would be awkward with the police standing so close.

"No..." I saw him whisper, and I desperately wanted to reply with something partially uplifting, but nothing came to mind soon enough, and the door slammed behind me creating a literal and figurative barrier between us that I was certain would never be removed.


	21. Thoughts Never Spoken

[Sherlock]

I felt numb as the door slammed shut between us, and unconsciously reached out a hand towards it as though it would help. Lestrade still stood in front of me, watching and waiting for the reaction he was sure would come. I desperately wanted to say something to him to help him understand what I was going through since I was certain his inferior deduction skills would be unable to pick anything up. However, I couldn't find the words to describe such a feeling, so I let the silence hang between us. He still had an annoyingly concerned look on his face that I really didn't want to deal with, and I could tell that sooner or later he would attempt some form of comforting gesture, which would only make the situation more awkward than it already was.

I decided that not speaking at all would probably be the only way to get out of the room emotionally intact, so I began to walk towards the door purposefully. Lestrade moved slightly out of my way for which I was immensely grateful, though I would never tell him so. Just when I thought I was in the clear, I felt a firm hand grip my shoulder and I froze at the contact.

"Look...Sherlock," I heard him start behind me and I turned my head towards him questioningly. He showed no signs of lowering his hand even though the height difference must have been slightly uncomfortable for him.

"I don't need your condolences, Lestrade." I said angrily, and he gave me one of the looks of disapproval that I had received frequently from him before I met John.

"You know why I had to take him in, Sherlock. His actions have not only shown, but _proved_ that he can be very dangerous if something upsets him. We both know he wasn't in his right mind when he did those things, but I can't just let him go free. What if something similar happened again? How would that make me look?" His eyes pleaded with me to see reason, but all I saw was the guilt that crowded the edges of his gaze. Interesting that he also blamed himself for John's actions. It seemed to me that everyone believed they had played a part in what had happened after my death. Well, everyone except Donovan. She just looked pleased at my apparent misfortune.

I didn't reply to Lestrade's questions, instead opting to continue with my escape from the flat. This time he didn't try to stop me, though he did follow me as I began my hasty retreat down the stairs and out the front door. Once outside I searched frantically for a taxi, as I could tell Lestrade was about to offer me a ride in his police car. To my disappointment, there were no taxis in sight, and I was practically forced by Lestrade to get in his vehicle instead. As I had predicted, the ride was silent and awkward. Neither of us were good with talking about feelings or trivial things, and I wasn't about to start making idle small talk. I attempted to retreat into my mind palace for something to do, but it was hard to concentrate when I could practically hear him thinking about how awkward it was. Why couldn't people just accept silence instead of filling it with useless chatter? I had no doubt that people would be much more intelligent if they actually stopped and thought once in a while.

Once we had finally arrived at the Yard and Lestrade had made a what he thought was silent sound of relief, I wasted no time in getting to John. I knew the way having been there many times before (not necessarily under arrest) and no one tried to stop me. They had taken him to one of the holding cells, and I found him there with his head in his hands and gently rocking himself. I could feel Lestrade's presence behind me but I ignored him in favour of leaning against the bars of the cell and clearing my throat to catch John's attention. He looked up, startled at the noise, but when he saw it was me he relaxed and came over.

"Mycroft will have you out of here soon, so don't get too comfortable," I joked with him, but he didn't return my smile. Instead, he began to talk, and I didn't really like where he was going.

"Listen, I've been thinking that it might be a good idea if I do go to prison, even if it's only for a year or two. It might help me accept what I did, and I might even begin to forgive myself if I suffer some sort of punishment for my actions." He looked nervous, probably unsure how I was going to react.

"You don't need to punish yourself, John. Just come back to me, carry on life as normal and we'll make it through. Let me call Mycroft now and he'll make the arrangements to have you let out."

"That's not fair Sherlock! I did wrong, and it shouldn't be legal for Mycroft to just remove all evidence of that! I need this. Please." He looked so sad, but at the same time, so hopeful. It disgusted me.

"I'll come back when you start to actually make sense." I growled at him, and stalked away, leaving him shouting after me. The conversation replayed itself over and over in my head, and I felt so angry that John would want such a future for himself. All for the sake of a clear conscience.

Then again, his strong morals had been one of the features that had attracted me to him in the first place. It didn't mean that I wanted him to waste his life in prison for something that wasn't entirely his fault, but I could see why he wanted to. The idea of release was certainly desirable. I turned around mid-stride and began to go back to the cell. I would give his opinions a chance. I wouldn't like them, but I would hear them out. Mycroft would be able to help out whatever the legal situation John found himself in, provided he was happy to return certain _favours._

* * *

**I wasn't going to post this tonight, but I was just in such a good mood! I just won Benedict's autograph on a Tumblr giveaway and I'm so excited now! I can't wait for it to arrive next week, eek! Hopefully the next few chapters will start to get more action-y and less feely, but I just need to see where each one takes me so you'll have to wait and see! Please review, I will answer any questions :)**


	22. Still Dreaming

[John]

Words occasionally found their way into my consciousness from the conversation happening around me, but I mostly ignored them. They might as well have made no sense at all for all the difference it would have made.

"How does your defendant plead?"

"Guilty, your Honour."

The court was busy, apparently I was rather famous now thanks to my misdeeds. Occasionally I smiled at Sherlock from where I sat, though he never showed any outward sign of emotion. However, knowing him as long as I had, I could tell that beneath that blank look he was furious, not necessarily completely at me. Furious that we were in this situation in the first place, furious that I actually wanted a punishment for my actions, furious that a court hearing was required at all considering I had pleaded guilty.

I had attempted to pay attention at the start, but the words that were spoken did not interest me in the slightest, and I was certain that I would have fallen asleep had I continued to listen to them. Instead, I gazed around the room at the many onlookers, at the jury, at the policemen surrounding me. I wished that I could deduce in the same way Sherlock could, as it would have made being in such a crowded room that much more enjoyable. However, when no spurt of insight came forward I was forced to accept defeat and study the view out the windows instead. Not that it was much more interesting. The sky was grey and cloudy, the trees were old and unforgiving, and the buildings that crowded the London skyline were about as beautiful as the rubbish that littered the streets beneath them. However, nothing could have made me feel more at home, more awake, more human. Because no one would dream up such a dreary landscape when there were so many bright colours and shapes they could use instead.

As everyone around me suddenly stood I was forced to cooperate. I still ignored them, up until the jury returned and delivered their verdict. Surprisingly, they found me guilty, considering I had offered no evidence to suggest the contrary. A few of them shot me some dark sideways glances, but I just held my head up high and stared at the judge as he mouthed some unimportant vocabulary about what was going to happen. Then came the important part.

"John Watson, you are hereby sentenced to two years in prison."

I scowled. Mycroft must have become involved, even against my wishes. I had been determined to pay out the full number of years to ensure I would no longer feel as guilty as I had been. However, it looked as though I would still have to deal with a certain amount of self-loathing for the remainder of my days.

I vaguely registered that I was being led away by the police officers, but I didn't really care. I was still angry at Mycroft, but even more so at Sherlock, because who else would have gone to Mycroft in the first place? Sherlock's brother was annoying as hell, but he would not have gone ahead and changed my sentence without my consent. Therefore, Sherlock had gone to plead with him, something he tried to keep to a minimum, meaning he really _was_ upset that I was not going to allow Mycroft to help me forfeit prison time.

I had told him time and time again while we waited for my hearing that he could visit me every day if need be. He replied that he wouldn't need to visit me at all if I returned to Baker Street with him right there and then. I had lost track of the number of times he had tried to reason with me, the number of arguments we had through the metal bars of the holding cell. We would each say that we had been the one to win, but in reality we had both lost.

Some part of me must have registered the journey, but I still felt confused when I came out of my thoughts to find myself already on the regulation white prison bed, with the metal bars separating me from the real world. There had been another reason that I wanted to be here, one I didn't want to talk to Sherlock about.

I still didn't feel awake. He may have believed that I was on the mend, that the moments I sounded and acted like myself were on their way to becoming permanent. However, in my mind those episodes were my attempt at lucid dreaming, and that sooner or later I would either wake up or move on to another dream. The question was, which would it be? Were dreams my reality or did I need to wake up to find myself again? Really it depended on which way you looked at it.

Sitting there made me miss Sherlock, as I didn't know how long I could go for without decent human company. I didn't really want to have to associate with criminals, but I supposed I was one now, so I would have to get over my feelings about it sooner or later.

That night I stared up at the concrete ceiling and wondered whether I had made the right decision. I had been completely ready to end it all after Sherlock finally thrust a mirror in front of me and I had realised what a monster I was. If he hadn't gone and got himself kidnapped I would have been dead already. I still wasn't sure whether my life would be worth living after the next couple of years, but at least I would have Sherlock. He was unlikely to abandon me, and life would be interesting enough with him around. I could live without other human company so long as I had him.

I wondered what he was doing in that precise moment, what he was thinking about. I could confidently conclude that he would be having a similar mental conversation with himself to the one I had just had sometime soon, if he had not done so already. If only I could have texted or rang him to ask how he was doing, and to let him know how I was. At least I would have been able to tell him to get to sleep and to eat something, because he certainly wouldn't do such things without a reminder. I just hoped that someone would take on the responsibility of doing so until I returned.

That night, I dreamed of fighting, of death, of destruction. I dreamed of a pale man with a sharp grin who laughed and laughed until there was nothing left but orange fire and the overpowering scent of blood.

* * *

**I must apologise as I have had no experience with court dealings and there wasn't a lot online I could use to help me, so sorry for any mistakes. The story should start to really pick up in a couple of chapters, so I'll try and post quickly to keep you from waiting. Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed so far, I can't believe I'm at 100 reviews! I'm definitely going to try to do a list thanking each and every one of you by the time this story is over, with special mentions to those who've reviewed multiple times or who have really touched me with the effort you've made. See you soon guys!**


	23. Into Darkness

[Sherlock]

It had been three weeks since John had gone to prison, and yet I already missed him immensely. I'd lived without him for three impossibly long years, but somehow this was worse. It was as though I was being taunted, allowed to see him and hear him but never touch him. I had been to visit him at least once every day since the start of his sentence, and frankly I was certain the guards were sick of me. It seemed as though every day they hoped it would be the day I decided not to come, though to see their faces drop in disappointment was somewhat entertaining.

I had actually considered doing something mildly illegal just to join John, but I had been advised by every single person I had ever spoken to that it was not as good an idea as it sounded. I couldn't see how it would really affect me, or anyone else around me for that matter, however I deleted the idea once I came to the realisation that there would be no cases for me, and if I became bored I couldn't exactly shoot the wall. John understood, he was actually one of the people who had advised me against criminal practices in the first place. I suppose he regretted his own and was trying to ensure I didn't follow in his footsteps.

Visiting hours only began at two, but I always arrived at half one and picked all the information I could out of unsuspecting visitors and guards. Needless to say, they didn't find it as entertaining as I did. John had really been the only one to appreciate my deductions, and I really did miss having him call out "amazing!" and "brilliant!" at every chance he got. I was actually rather excited to see him, as just the day before I had solved a particularly challenging case, and I wanted to explain it to him. He did always seem to enjoy my descriptions, and it was nice to have someone who actually listened with interest.

I strode up the steps leading to the prison and I could see the familiar faces of the guards glowering at me through the window. I was nearly to the top when an explosion shook the ground beneath me, and the windows shattered. The force sent me flying backwards and I winced as my head collided with the ground. Fortunately I wasn't seriously injured, but I realised that the same couldn't necessarily be said for John. I clambered to my feet, ignoring the pain in my head and ran forwards into the building. Alarms were blaring in my ears and various moans of pain could be heard from the staff who had been knocked to the floor. I decided luck was not with me as I realised that the explosion had come from inside the prison itself, meaning that it was most likely deliberate. Such an attack could easily have been intended for John, which would mean there was high probability he was already dead.

I ignored the panic that threatened to overwhelm me at the thought and kept going, eventually reaching a doorway surrounded by policemen and medics, all attempting to get through. It was simple enough to slip in with the masses and enter the main prison, where I was met with a horrifying scene. The room certainly looked as though it had been hit by a bomb, as the walls were blackened, and people littered the floor, most were motionless, very few were conscious. Those who were screamed in pain and fear, and once again the image of John lying in a corner, bloodied and broken, filled my thoughts. I searched frantically for him, but could not see those greying blond locks in the mass of bodies on the floor. Whoever had set off the explosion had chosen the prime time to do so, it looked as though everyone had been having lunch. The medical staff had already begun checking the bodies for signs of life, moving between them far too quickly for my liking. I began my own search, growing more frantic each second I couldn't find John. _Where was he?_

Just when I had given up hope, I heard a mumbled "Sherlock..." Coming from my left. I followed the sound to find a familiar pair of dark blue eyes staring up at me, slightly disorientated. I knelt beside John and checked him for signs of injury, thankfully not finding more than a few cuts and a possible concussion.

"Stop looking so smug you prick." John said and I grinned at him. Definitely nothing serious, then.

"I did tell you it was a bad idea," I replied sternly, though I couldn't keep the relieved smile off my face for long. I helped him to sit up slowly, and a few minutes later he managed to stand with minimal difficulties. I led him towards the exit where we were being given some suspicious looks.

"You'd better ring Mycroft before you just take me away, I don't think the police will approve." John said.

"I'm sure he's already been informed." I replied. John snorted unattractively, but didn't question me further. Surprisingly, no one actually stopped us from leaving. I was thankful for my brother's efficiency, especially since there was already a car waiting for us which we happily climbed into. I would never tell him so, but I was grateful that I had him as a relation. How else would I have been able to get John out?

As we pulled away from the prison I realised I didn't know what was going to happen next. After all, if someone was after John, he wasn't safe back at Baker Street. In fact, I wouldn't rest until he had protection worthy of Mycroft himself. No one would get within a mile of John with intentions to harm him, I would make sure of it. For now, we would have to find a suitable arrangement, which, unfortunately, meant enlisting my brother's help as a more permanent measure. The thought made me shudder, but at least I would be able to annoy him while I was at it.

* * *

A man watched as the detective and doctor got into the car. He grinned and sent a quick text, before turning away and quietly humming to himself.

_"Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive."_

* * *

**I've just had some lovely reviews for the last couple of chapters, thank you so much lovely people! I still can't believe I'm at over 100 reviews, it's so amazing! Definitely some exciting stuff coming up soon, as you can no doubt tell, so don't go anywhere! And please continue to leave wonderful reviews, I have started to reply to them to let you know I appreciate them :)**


	24. Whispers

[John]

Once Sherlock and I had arrived at Mycroft's rather sizeable home in central London and had been ushered to our rooms, I found myself worrying again for our safety. Not just my own, for I was certain if someone was trying to kill me for some unknown reason that Sherlock would almost certainly get in the way. Though he would never admit it to himself, and I was not brave enough to broach the topic, the detective was very protective when it came to people he trusted. His willingness to fall off the roof of St Bart's when so much could have gone wrong was a heavy reminder of the fact. I would never ask him to do anything that could compromise his safety, however the man was just as stubborn as he was protective, if not more so.

I gazed around the spacious and comfortable room I'd been given, but I didn't feel happy. The enormous bed and ensuite bathroom did nothing to ease my concerns, and I found I did not appreciate the effort some poor housekeeper of Mycroft's had put into making the room luxurious. I would happily have slept in a dingy hotel room, so long as it was close to Sherlock. His room in this particular abode was too far away for my liking, being down numerous twisting hallways that I couldn't remember too well, and it made me nervous. I didn't want to let him out of my sight knowing that at any moment danger could come calling, but, impossibly, at the same time I wanted him as far away from me as possible. He would never be safe while he was around me, and the idiot had a tendency to get himself injured. Everything was just so confusing, and I audibly growled while trying to come to terms with it all.

Though I couldn't say I regretted returning to Baker Street with Sherlock, if only for a minimal amount of time, it had just made things a lot more complicated. Had I continued in my solitude, I would not have recreated the attachment he felt to me, and he would not be in danger. Then again, someone could have attempted to use his health against me, which could have had even more terrifying consequences.

A little voice in the back of my head told me that leaving right now, without Sherlock by my side, was the only way to keep him safe.

I ignored it.

After about ten minutes of (probably unnecessary) pacing, I heard a knock at the door, and one of Mycroft's many household staff poked her head through. She announced that I was expected in the dining room in approximately ten minutes for the evening meal, then left rather abruptly. I decided that it couldn't hurt to go down early, especially since I'd just be watching the clock every two seconds otherwise.

I attempted to look calm and collected as I made my way in what I hoped was the right direction. As I passed Sherlock's room I heard his deep baritone voice arguing with someone. I was never normally a nosy person, but the conversation happening behind the door sounded intriguing and very secretive. Therefore, naturally, I put my ear to the door to listen in to what they had to say.

"Of course it wasn't him! I think I would know by now, Mycroft. He would have told me." I heard Sherlock say, anger creeping into his tone.

"Unfortunately, brother, neither you nor I have any precise evidence as to how far his condition could take him. He may well be lying to us both, or he could not know himself." I realised with horror that they were asking about me, and against my better judgement continued to eavesdrop.

"That's preposterous! You've heard John, he's completely sane now. He would have had no reason to do such a thing."

"Don't let sentiment cloud your good judgement, Sherlock. The man specifically told us that he had been hired by Doctor John Watson, and only under intense pressure. The call that we traced was John's voice too, and his fingerprints covered the phone."

"But it doesn't make any sense!" Sherlock was making no attempt to conceal his anger now. "He didn't need to kill again, not now he has me back!" There was a note of uncertainty in Sherlock's voice, and I realised with a sick feeling in my stomach that I'd heard enough.

I made it all the way back to my room before I started to hyperventilate, my breaths coming short and fast, and my heart was pounding in my chest as though I'd just run a marathon. I didn't know what to believe. I couldn't remember any kind of phone call, or any intentions to murder anyone, however I realised to my horror that there was a very large possibility that it had been my doing. After all, who knew how messed up my mind was? Only weeks ago I'd had a complete breakdown that had resulted in a lot of broken objects and plans for suicide. Who was to say that I hadn't made a phone call in a time of particular madness?

I needed more evidence. It wasn't looking like there would be any of the sort I wanted to find, but I had to try. It could just as well be a set-up, though I couldn't think of anyone that would want to set me up. After all, the worst that could happen was that I went back to prison, only for Mycroft to get me out again. As Sherlock had said, it didn't make sense. That left the option that it had been me, but again it didn't feel right. I hadn't been alone long enough for a phone call anywhere, and I was pretty certain I had been in my right mind ever since Sherlock had convinced me to live with him again. I was definitely missing something, some piece of evidence. Until I found it, I was not going to let Sherlock know I'd heard his conversation, nor do anything about it until I knew for certain that it was or wasn't me.

I splashed cold water on my face from the tap and took a few minutes of calm breathing before making my way out of my room. I stopped for a few seconds outside Sherlock's room, but heard nothing from within so carried on my way. I didn't have a lot of faith in my acting skills, especially considering it was the Holmes boys who would be listening to my performance.

Fortunately, both looked very distracted, and neither was talking to the other when I arrived. It was decidedly easy to pretend my silence was from the awkwardness in the room and the delicious food, and neither called me out on my act.

Later on, when I was in bed, staring up at the ceiling and unable to sleep, I made a promise to myself. I would do everything to keep Sherlock safe. He had given up everything, jumped off a building to ensure my survival, and I would definitely do the same for him in a heartbeat if I felt it was necessary.

Therefore, there were two ways this situation could play out. Firstly, it could turn out I was being framed by someone, in which case I would see to it that Sherlock was not involved in that person's capture. Even if I had to beg Mycroft to kidnap him and keep him sedated until it was all over.

Secondly, it could turn out that I _did_ kill someone unknowingly, which would almost certainly endanger Sherlock and everyone else. There was only one option for such a situation, and it was one I hoped I wouldn't have to face.

I would have to die.

* * *

**The last chapter got way more reviews than I expected! Thank you to all you reviewers, you should hopefully have got a reply for your effort :) exciting stuff coming up so stay tuned! Remember that my Tumblr is dangerousbliss so don't hesitate to say hi! **


	25. The Nightmare Begins

**I think you'll enjoy this chapter, it was great fun to write, though it will definitely leave you with a lot of questions! As you can no doubt tell, things are really going to start to pick up from here onwards, and some nail biting will definitely come within the next few chapters! You've been warned ;) Oh, and thank you so much for all the reviews! I am replying to all reviews from now, so please take the time to leave one! I think I will end up doing a thank you list once this story is over, so all my lovely reviewers will feature on it (just as an added incentive!) Here you go, one rather exciting and probably confusing chapter...**

[Sherlock]

Preposterous. It was a word that I felt I should really use more often, as it perfectly described my feelings towards most ideas and deductions that weren't my own, such as Mycroft's belief that John had something to do with the murder of Sebastian Wilkes. It didn't seem to me that John would have lowered himself to hire someone else to do his dirty work for him. That and the fact that he had not really been out of my sight long enough for a phone call.

However, he had become a very difficult man to predict. Half the time he acted ashamed of himself and his previous actions, and just as frequently he could be verging on sociopathic with an increasing lack of empathy. It was almost as if his personality had been split in half and neither the best or worst of him could gain full control. Under different circumstances it would have been fascinating to document, but I couldn't bring myself to see him as an experiment when so much was at stake.

The truth was, I didn't know what I'd do with myself if he was found guilty. It would certainly prove that any hope of us returning to normal life would be an impossibility. I didn't want to live my life without him, but if he couldn't control these murderous rages he apparently got himself into, where would that leave us? The good half of him (as I had begun to refer to it as) would never let me live alone with him, "far too dangerous" as he would say.

The meal with Mycroft had been awkward, to say the least. I had refused to acknowledge my brother's existence for fear that he would bring up his suspicions in front of John. I really didn't want to hear John's answer until I was more certain it was the one I wanted to hear. Therefore, silence had enveloped the house, and even the staff kept from asking unnecessary questions. I longed to speak with John about insignificant conversational topics, to hear him laugh as I attempted to steal something of Mycroft's, but he was being decidedly quiet too. No doubt from the tense atmosphere, though I was certain he would be fine when we didn't have my annoying brother listening to every word.

I hadn't slept that night, instead, I began sorting through the past few weeks in my Mind Palace, organising them in all manner of ways. It didn't feel like only a few weeks, it felt much longer.

I gave up after only three hours, the work was tedious and I really needed something else to distract me. With no gun nearby to help take out my frustration I instead moved quietly through the house to John's room. I considered the fact he would probably be asleep and therefore very grumpy when I woke him, but decided he would probably appreciate the fact I hadn't destroyed anything instead.

I was initially anxious and scared when I saw his bed was empty, the sheets thrown back in a suspicious way. However, my wandering gaze soon found his silhouette out on the balcony, and he looked to be in deep thought. I attempted to make as little noise as possible as I crept towards him, but his hearing must have improved, for he turned around and smirked at me before I even got close. Neither one of us broke the silence as I joined him on the balcony, though I felt as though something really needed to be said.

"You got the best room," I said, mock jealousy colouring my tone. He smiled, but it seemed more forced than usual, and I could tell something was wrong.

"I heard you before. You and Mycroft, arguing. About me, it seemed." It took a few seconds to comprehend, but I finally understood.

"You think you did it." I said, my brain whirring with possibilities. John's frown deepened with worry, and I had the sudden urge to put my hand on his shoulder, though I ignored it.

"I don't know what to believe," he said, following his confession with a heavy sigh. "I wouldn't ever have done it in my right mind, I mean, I still don't even know _who_ actually died, but I can't really see another option for what happened. It just doesn't feel like a set-up, you know?" John turned to me, his eyes pleading that I would be able to give him advice, that I would be able to say something to help him, but nothing came to mind. His confession had shocked me, especially the part about him not knowing who had died, but I supposed it was a good thing. It meant the John I knew hadn't done anything wrong.

When no words of wisdom escaped my mouth, John turned away and leaned against the balcony, staring out into the distance. This time I didn't ignore my emotional instincts, and tentatively placed my hand on his shoulder. I was worried the gesture was wrong when he tensed up at the contact, but, immediately after, his whole body relaxed as the stress melted away. I felt amazed at how much a single action could help someone, and vowed to use it again next time I got the chance. I squeezed his shoulder in what I hoped was another wonderful surge of insight, and left my hand placed there. We stayed like that for a long time, each of us lost in our thoughts, until the midnight blue of the sky began to fade to a much lighter colour, and John's eyelids began to droop from exhaustion.

I guided him back to his bed with minimal protest, and the man was so tired that I was certain he was asleep before his head even hit the pillow. I considered staying in his room to help prevent nightmares, especially since I wasn't going to get any sleep anyway, but the consequences of being caught would be dire indeed. Eventually I left to take a walk outside, giving my sleeping flatmate one last look before heading out.

One of the staff caught me just as I was attempting to unlock the door, and forced me to the kitchen for a drink. I attempted to protest, but she reminded me very much of Mrs Hudson, so I accepted the tea she made and took it with me on my travels.

Once I was finally in the garden, I took a stroll, letting my feet take me where they wanted to go while I considered the situation with John. It was rather difficult to fathom out a solution, even for someone of my intellect. There didn't seem to be a happy ending for us in sight, and though I did not want to admit defeat, I found that I had run out of ideas.

With my brain fresh out of useful insights, I turned to take in my surroundings and found myself in an area of dense woodland. I didn't really know Mycroft's garden that well, never having taken the time to explore it before, so I didn't really know how far I'd come, having had only a very general direction in mind when I'd set off from the house.

It was rather dark, and I wished I'd thought to bring a torch with me, considering I could only vaguely make out the outlines of the trees around me. I tried to retrace my steps but it proved to be much more difficult than I'd originally thought. After a while of aimless wandering, I felt myself start to become fearful. The trees seemed to be getting closer together, and I don't recognise my surroundings, which I felt could mean I was going in the completely wrong direction. I heard rustling coming from the bushes around me, and the shadows seemed to be more like the shapes of humans and large animals than trees. Speckles of light coming from the occasional break in the dense foliage left the feeling of hungry eyes watching my movements, and I felt my pace quicken. My heart began to beat faster, and soon every sound and sight seemed to become some indication of predators. My senses were being bombarded, and I couldn't think straight, which left me sprinting in terror in no particular direction, gasping for breath. The tree roots seemed to slither around on the muddy floor, tripping me up at every occasion. Still, I kept running, and the sounds were getting closer and closer. Logic left me as I ran for my life, and all I could see were the eyes of beasts in the bushes waiting for me to make a mistake.

I grew tired, and my muscles began to ache, but still I ran on, sweat plastering the hair to my forehead, and scenarios of being mauled to death running through my mind. My panic caused me to miss what should have been painfully obvious, and soon I was falling, falling into the small pond that I had not spotted quickly enough. The cold water left me shrieking in shock and with fear of death by drowning. I fought to get to the side, but my legs wouldn't cooperate properly, and my eyes and lungs were filled with murky water. Barely making it to the side, and heaving myself out, I lay by the pond, shivering and shaking. The noises overwhelmed me and I began to rock back and forth as images that didn't make sense took over my vision. People, places and horrible growling sounds that left me calling out for John. He would help, he would explain the awful images to me. But John didn't come. No one did. I was left there, shaking, and Moriarty's face played across my vision, taunting me with his evil grin and terrifying laugh that stayed with me even as I lost consciousness, breaking me even in sleep.


	26. Found and Lost

**Extra long chapter, enjoy!**

[John]

I woke up in a cold sweat, but for the life of me could not remember the dream that had terrified me so much. I just knew it had left me with a bloody awful headache and a jittery attitude. I pushed my fear aside to make room for more important matters, such as my conversation with Sherlock last night. I hadn't known that the self-proclaimed sociopath could show so much understanding in emotional situations, but I was certainly glad for it. He had done his fair share of unlawful activities, so on some level must have known what I was going through. I decided to see what his attitude was at breakfast, as I was unused to this side of him, and wanted to see if he was going to maintain this sudden emotional intelligence.

However, the detective was not at the table when I walked down, and neither was he in his room. One of the staff told me they had seen him go outside for a walk late last night, and with Mycroft apparently unavailable, I reasoned to start looking for him there.

I became more and more anxious the more time I spent searching for him, and many horrible possibilities passed through my thoughts. Hours passed, and Mycroft's garden was gigantic to say the least. I called his name so many times I lost count, and my voice had become hoarse. I considered that Sherlock may not have even come in the garden, and was actually hiding in the house somewhere, giggling in a cupboard like a five year-old. Then I remembered it was Sherlock Holmes I was talking about. A cupboard was not nearly a fantastic enough place to hide for the World's only Consulting Detective.

I decided to search the forest at the bottom of the garden before quitting. At least that way, if Sherlock really was in the house, I could tell him I searched the whole garden looking for him, and he'd laugh in delight at my idiotic ways.

Though on the outside I looked relaxed and maybe slightly annoyed, inside I was truly frightened. If he wasn't in the forest, he wouldn't be in the house. Maybe he had gone off to do his own investigation, but maybe he wasn't alright. Maybe he had been taken by the same people who had set off the bomb in the prison. Maybe they had hurt him.

I was so lost in my own thoughts that I barely noticed the pale figure lying by the side of the pond, deathly still. However, some part of my brain made a connection between the figure and my seemingly fruitless searching, and my feet moved unconsciously towards him. I was kneeling next to Sherlock before I registered it was him, and my eyes widened in shock before I went into doctor-mode.

Sherlock's clothes were damp, meaning he had found himself in the pond only a few hours before. I checked his heartbeat, which was thankfully steady, but his skin was ice cold. I tried saying his name again, almost like a mantra, hoping that he was alright. He may well have heard me, for those intense eyes soon fluttered open and landed on my face. His gaze was unsteady, and he barely looked alive, let alone awake, but the important thing was he recognised me, as his face lit up slightly into a small smile. However, the look very soon disappeared, to be replaced with one filled with both shock, and confused determination. With a surprising amount of strength he pushed my hands away and sat up, holding his head.

"Sherlock? Are you alright? What happened?" I asked, concerned with how he had come to be in such a predicament in the first place.

"I'm fine now," he replied, though to me he didn't sound it. Those eyes were unfocused as though he were trying hard to come to terms with something.

"Please tell me you didn't think it was a good idea to go swimming in a secluded pond in the middle of the night. I don't care what your excuse is, you had me worried sick!" I was getting angry now.

"I've been drugged... But how..." He said it softly, so I nearly didn't catch what he was implying.

"What?" I asked him, bewildered as to how he came to such a conclusion. The man ignored me as he had started to mutter deductions under his breath, and I wondered if he was feeling alright.

"The tea!" He suddenly exclaimed, and jumped up, nearly falling in the process, before running off back towards the house.

"Hey!" I shouted, still shocked from his sudden outburst, before taking off after him. Surprisingly, Sherlock was a very fast runner, even when (possibly) drugged. I didn't really know if he had been, though if he believed it then it had probably happened.

When I finally caught up to him, he was shouting at one of the kitchen staff, threatening her and leaving her very close to tears. "I don't know! We get it all delivered..." She sobbed, and Sherlock took off again, shouting about drugged tea.

I attempted to console the poor woman, who seemed on the verge of hysterics. "There's nothing wrong with the tea!" She cried, "I had a cup at the same time as him, and I feel fine..."

I left her muttering about finding a new job with fewer weird occurrences, and followed Sherlock to the kitchen, considering what she'd said. The detective was busy throwing tea bags around and getting the milk out of the fridge when I arrived.

"Must be in one of these... The sugar? Couldn't be a coincidence, they must have followed the Baskerville case..." He seemed very frantic, and I almost didn't want to stop him from talking.

"Sherlock... The woman, she said that she had a cup of tea as well. That means it can't be the tea." Sherlock stopped and stared at me, before dropping the mug on the floor where it shattered and coming towards me. His eyes were wild, and I took a step back in fear, but he simply passed me and left the room, shouting back that he was going to find his microscope and medical kit and that I should give him half an hour.

I growled in frustration, realising he had successfully avoided answering the questions I had voiced to him, leaving my only information being that he was drugged. He didn't seem drugged though, just slightly frantic. His body seemed to be working normally, though to be certain I needed to find out what had happened last night.

I returned to my room, figuring that he would find me when he finished doing whatever he was up to. I checked my old blog on the computer, re-living memories of cases that I had forgotten about. It was nice to not worry about current events for a few minutes. I was just finishing up when Sherlock barged through the door, his emotions on play for all to see rather than the usual emotionless mask he put on.

"No drugs..." He said, and I really looked at him. How tired he looked, and how scared.

"What happened last night, Sherlock?" I asked, my tone firm, pretty much forcing him to answer me.

"I... I don't really know..." He confessed. "The forest, it was so alive, and there were people there... And, and... Moriarty. He was there too. It must have been a drug, John! He's dead, and there were dreams, and I was running-"

"Stop! Please!" I said, voice wavering slightly. It hurt me to see him looking so vulnerable. "You didn't find any drugs in your system?"

"None..." He confessed.

I wondered what that meant. Had he finally lost it, too? Was it exposure to my own insanity that was brining out such weird actions on his part? Was it possible for me to affect him in such a way?

"Maybe you need some sleep." I suggested, but it didn't feel like such a small action would be able to help. He shook his head, but then proceeded to lie down on the sofa, curling himself into a ball. It was terrifying seeing him like this when he was normally so controlled and calm.

"Maybe I should leave." I said softly, half not wanting to voice the possibility in case he agreed. He turned his head to face me, confusion and fury etched on his features.

"How will that help?!" He exclaimed angrily. "Don't say such stupid things John!"

I felt my own anger bubble up inside me, and I responded to him in a very similar tone, "Well, maybe if I hadn't come back to live with you, none of this would be happening! You'd still be alright, still be _sane_!" I stopped, shocked that I had said that out loud. He seemed surprised that I had said that too, and very hurt.

"Is that how you feel, John? That I am mad?" His lip began to quiver, though I doubt he noticed it, or even knew how much it was giving away.

"No, I think that I'm mad, and you're just picking up on it and responding to it." I tried to keep my tone very matter-of-fact, but I feared it hadn't worked as well as I'd wanted it to.

"Don't be preposterous, John." He scowled in my direction, and I snapped.

"Do you think your health is some kind of _game_, Sherlock? Something that doesn't really matter? It may not be important to you, but it matters a hell of a lot to me, and I'm not just going to stand here and watch you get worse when it's probably my fault!" I was shouting by the end of it, and Sherlock's face had returned to its usual disdainful expression.

"It's not your bloody fault, John! Stop acting like everything has something to do with you when it obviously doesn't. I haven't gone mad as you may well believe, and if I had it certainly wouldn't be through any fault of yours." Sherlock did not shout, but his voice was cold and that somehow gave it an even greater effect. He stood very unsteadily and attempted to walk purposefully out of the door, but I stopped him.

"If you step out that door, I won't be here when you get back." I was angry, _furious_, even, and I hated him in that moment for not seeing what I was trying to say. He could be so single-minded sometimes. If he wanted me to stay, he would have to come back and give me a convincing argument. However, that was far from what happened.

With a last look of pure rage, he turned and sauntered out the door, leaving me guilty that I had given him such a decision, and downright horrified at what he had chosen. Swallowing back the tears that threatened, I pulled out the bag from under the bed and began to pack.

* * *

**Ooh angsty! Splitting them up, that's bound to start the ball rolling, isn't it? What do you think has happened? I'll never tell, but I'd love to hear how you think this story will end! I can tell you that you'll get all the answers you need, but not necessarily the ones you want... (Muahahaha) Oh and thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! 121 reviews, and over 90 follows! I have one word for that- amazing! Please keep reviewing, I definitely don't bite, and you'll get a lovely little message from me in your inbox, so isn't it all worth it? Exciting events coming up very soon, so stay tuned! I'll try and update quite a lot in the next few days as I go to San Francisco next Wednesday, so I hope to either finish completely or leave the story on a really horrible cliff-hanger just to annoy you all! (I will probably update while I'm there, the hotel apparently has wifi, and the journey is like nine hours long, so don't get too worried if I do leave you hanging!) Love all you wonderful people :)**


	27. Alone Again

[John]

Walking out of that house, bag in hand, I had the sudden bizarre idea that I might never see Sherlock again. Most of me found the idea to be silly, as once the detective had calmed down he would see that he had been wrong, and would ask me to return. He had only left out of anger, after all. However, a niggling feeling was left that I couldn't quite shake that said otherwise. I tried my best to ignore it, but it kept coming back to me, with increasing intensity.

It was rather inconvenient for me, as I would have to find somewhere to stay that was surrounded by people who would not recognise me. Considering most of London had heard about my trial and many knew of Sherlock or had read my blog, it would most likely prove to be rather impossible. I decided therefore that Baker Street was the only option, and I would have to keep a very low profile while there. I wasn't yet sure how I would be able to get food, but I was certain that I would find a way. Eventually.

I had thankfully been given a key by Sherlock once I had agreed to living with him again, so getting into the flat was no trouble. It felt strange to be there without the detective, but at least this time I knew he was alive and most likely in good health. I took the time to wonder what he was thinking in that moment, and whether he regretted his outburst yet. It was a rather strange reaction from him, now that I thought about it. Sherlock really hasn't seemed himself, and considering all the effort he had out in to making sure I stayed with him, I found it queer that he would give it all up in the heat of an argument. There was definitely something going on, and I just hoped that it would be fixed soon. A sudden thought struck that he might have pushed me away on purpose, either as the result of a threat, or trying to keep me safe. It was definitely a possibility, and one I would explore when I next saw from him. Unless he was already in the enemy's hands?

A sudden knock at the door startled me out of my thoughts, and for a happy moment I thought it was Sherlock, come to apologise. However, my hopes were shattered when I heard the voice that accompanied the knocking.

"John? Are you in there? John?" Lestrade sounded calm, so I didn't rush to open the door for him. I was surprised to see him alone, I had been certain he was here to arrest me again. Not that I was complaining.

"You look better," he said, and I gave him a small smile. This seemed to relax him a bit, he probably still wondered if I was sane. He looked around the room and I let him in, and offered him a cup of tea, which he declined.

"So, where's Sherlock, then?" He asked, more as an ice breaker than anything else. Little did he know it was an important question, one I didn't really want to go into detail about.

"We had a fight." I said simply, and he gave me a concerned look, so I turned my head away. When I looked back at him, he had seated himself on the sofa, and was beckoning me to join him.

I sat down awkwardly next to him after a mild hesitation, and he watched me through furrowed brows for a good five minutes before he began.

"John, I know the last few years weren't good for your mental health. I think we all know that." He smiled sadly, and I kept my gaze averted from his face so I wouldn't be able to see the pain and sadness I knew I would find there. "You're a different man with Sherlock around, and I think he's helped you as much as you've helped him. Now, I don't know what you were arguing about, and I'm not going to ask, but I'm sure he'll be back eventually. He's stubborn, but you're his friend. He'll come back."

Lestrade seemed proud of his speech, but didn't appear to have planned past it. There was another moment of silence before he finally seemed to come up with something. "Mycroft called us, and your record is officially clean so long as you don't do anything to mess it up. I just want you to know that I'm always here for you, mate, and if you need someone, um, well... You know where to find me."

I was surprised at how genuine he sounded. I felt a renewed respect for the man, as I was certain that I wouldn't have been able to rekindle a friendship with someone who had murdered and gotten away with it.

"Uh, thanks." I said, wishing I could come up with something more fitting to show him that I really appreciated what he'd just said. However, Lestrade seemed to realise that I really was grateful for his efforts, as he smiled happily and nodded his thanks.

That seemed to be the end of our conversation, as he stood and walked towards the door, calling out "I'll be back again tomorrow to check on you! Get some rest!" as he left. I stared at the door once it had shut, letting the conversation sink in, before getting up. I needed something to do, but I wasn't sure what, yet.

I ended up watching crap telly cradling a cup of tea for the rest of the evening. It wasn't very productive, but I didn't really feel like an activity requiring mental activity. It was nice, in a way. I thought of Sherlock, again, and it made me feel sad.

That night, I slept in his bed instead of my own. I felt silly doing it, and I prayed he wouldn't find me in it if he decided to come back in the morning, but I felt so comforted by it. His scent was all over the pillows, and it was almost like he was there with me.

It didn't stop the nightmares, though.

I had horrible dreams that night, filled with blood and screaming. The worst dream was undoubtedly the one which contained Sherlock. He lay on the ground, his chest red with blood, choking and crying out in pain. I stood above him, holding the knife that had injured him, and for some untold reason I was eager to end his life. I could feel someone beside me, his hand on my shoulder, urging me to finish the job.

"Don't forget," the man whispered in my ear, and I could feel his warm breath clouding my thoughts like poisoned gas.

"Falling is just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination. So, when the time comes, which will it be? Will you fly, Johnny-Boy, or will you fall?"

* * *

**Coincidence? Or a warning? I'll let you decide that one! Sorry it's not that long, but there's definitely going to be a lot of crazy stuff coming up soon, and I estimate there will only be about five chapters left from now... There will definitely be a cliff hanger around the time of next Tuesday evening, and it will definitely depend on whether there's Wifi in the hotel in San Francisco for a chapter update while I'm there! (Sorry) Anyway, thank you so much you amazing people for your reviews, it's so sad to think it will all be over soon! I have been trying to reply to all reviews, though I think I might have missed out the ones for chapter 25 so sorry if you didn't get one! I'll definitely do one for everyone who reviews this time! (And there are over 90 of you, so if you can find the time to send a tiny review telling me you're even a little bit excited for the story I'll appreciate it so much!) Thank you! See you tomorrow or the day after :)**


	28. The Beginning of the End

**Guys, this is it. The first of five chapters that will leave you shaking and crying out in both fear and anticipation. The first part of the reveal will come at the end of this chapter, but please don't just skip to the end. The wait will make it so much more exciting. Just read.**

[Sherlock]

I felt absolutely, positively _awful_. Every single part of my body was in pain, the worst being the astounding headache that throbbed and left me feeling like I'd been run over.

I sat up, taking a few seconds to remember that I was in my brother's house, but other than that piece of information, I could barely remember anything else. My thoughts felt sluggish, and I had a feeling I was missing something important. I decided the best course of action was to consult John, after all, he knew of all my misdoings, and would most likely be able to give me advice, such as how to cure the annoying headache.

I wandered to his room, but was surprised to find it abandoned. The fact worried me, as it didn't look like he'd just moved rooms. I thought back to my last memory, and found that it was being on John's balcony and comforting him in the middle of the night. I considered that I could have done something wrong, such as attempted to take it too far, and he'd run off. It seemed unlikely, though. That wasn't John's personality.

I set out to find Mycroft, deciding that he would undoubtedly have the answers I was seeking. He really was a pain in the arse to search for, especially in his massive house, for he knew of all the good hiding places. I finally found him in the library, absently scanning a book but I could tell he wasn't absorbing the words. It was something I had seen him do often back in his youth, as if it didn't look like he was doing something, Mummy would force him away from his thinking to attempt something he didn't enjoy.

My brother looked up when I entered the room, and from the way he immediately discarded the book I could tell he had been awaiting my arrival. That was never a good sign.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" He asked, and the concern in his voice was rather worrying. It made it sound like there was something wrong.

"I don't know," I admitted, still rather shaken as to why there seemed to be gaps in my memory. "Where's John?" I asked.

Mycroft let his jaw slacken in shock and confusion, and again I was struck at what a rare occasion this was. The man never showed emotions, and this was two in the space of a few seconds. He furrowed his brow in intense thought for a few seconds before speaking up.

"You... You don't remember?"

"I wouldn't be here if I did."

Mycroft took a deep breath before answering, and from the look on his face I could tell he was trying to think of the appropriate way to phrase something. "John left. He told me you two had an argument, and that you stormed out after he threatened to leave."

I swallowed thickly, trying to come to terms with this new information. I would never have left in such a situation, would I? Not where John's safety was concerned. What was more worrying was that my brain had deleted the memories, so I didn't even know what we had been arguing about. What had happened?

"When was that?" I asked, unsure as to whether I really wanted to hear the answer.

Mycroft stared at me for a good ten seconds before answering. "Three days ago. From what my staff have told me, you've been asleep since then." I felt my breath catch in my throat, and I could hardly believe what he was trying to tell me.

"What else happened before then?" I asked firmly, not allowing my panic to show through. I needed to know what had happened so that I could find John. Who knew what I had said to him in the argument, when I obviously wasn't in control?

"From what I've gathered, you took a midnight walk, and didn't return. John found you soaking wet in the middle of the forest, and you were muttering and screeching about being drugged." Hmm, so that was what had happened, but it still didn't explain the argument.

"However," Mycroft continued, and I felt myself stiffen at what I assumed would only be bad news. "When you were tested for drugs, there were none found in your system." Well, that was unexpected. How could I not have been drugged?

"Who tested me?" I asked, noting the small quiver in my voice.

"You did." Mycroft replied evenly. Well, that was stupid. If I had been under the influence of drugs, who knew how I could have interpreted the results of such a test?

"So why did John leave?" It had been bugging me. If I hadn't looked stable, why had he left? Surely he would have taken nothing I'd said to heart? If I'd insulted him, surely he would have seen it as a result of the drugs?

"Apparently after hearing that you hadn't been drugged, he immediately reasoned that his own mental instability was rubbing off on you. He tried to talk to you about it, but you wouldn't listen to him. Then, when you ignored his threats, he felt it was in your best interests to leave. I tried to stop him, but we both know what a stubborn man he is, and very protective of you. There was nothing I could do." That did sound very much like something John would do. He was always blaming himself for things that weren't his fault, and the doctor was rather overprotective when it came to his friends.

Still, I didn't see why he immediately came to such a conclusion when it was obvious I'd been drugged. Surely he would have stayed, even just to make sure I was safe? Also, since he was a doctor he should have known that mental illness was in no way contagious. That begged the question, had John been in _his_ right mind when he'd left? It didn't seem like he'd been drugged, but had the argument caused some kind of relapse that had made him believe that leaving was a good idea?

I would have to find him, and we would sort it out. There was no telling what kind of danger either of us was in, and it was logical therefore that we should stay together. 'Safety in numbers' as the saying went.

"I do believe that I was drugged, dear brother, and now I am going to find John. Do you have any idea where he went?" I asked Mycroft, and he gave me a knowing smile.

"I had guessed as much, if only John had opened his eyes to the fact as well. You are in luck, as I do in fact know for certain that he returned to your flat on Baker Street immediately after leaving. Not the brightest move, I'll admit, but he doesn't seem to have had any troubles so far."

I considered that for a moment, before thanking my brother (who I had finally found a use for) and exiting the room. I needed to find John, that was a given. From the sound of it, he was still alright, which was a miracle in itself, but I couldn't say he would be alright for much longer if I didn't do anything.

I didn't bother to collect any belongings before stealing one of Mycroft's many expensive-looking cars and driving as fast as it would let me. I had no care for the speed limit, even though a part of me was left looking out for police officers as I really didn't need a run in with Lestrade before I found John. I made it to Baker Street in one piece, and surprisingly without receiving any complaints about my driving. I barely stopped to close the car door before running towards the very familiar door that marked the entrance to my home.

However, it didn't seem to be my lucky day. Before I could even climb up the stairs that led to the door, I felt the familiar prick of a needle in my arm, and my vision started to go black around the edges. I fought to remain conscious with every bit of strength I possessed, but it was no use. I could feel the darkness of the sedative, and there was nothing I could do but let it pull me under.

I awoke later to find my headache had returned, along with the fogginess one only feels after being drugged. I opened my eyes to see that I was in an empty grey room, with the only contrast from the walls being the door directly in front of me. I stood slowly, allowing my brain to adjust to the feeling of being awake again. There was nothing I could deduce such as where I was or why I'd been brought there. However, the feeling that something was awfully, terribly wrong just wouldn't leave me.

I started to step towards the door to check whether it was locked, when I heard the familiar rattle of a key in a lock, and the door opened.

If I'd have known who was about to walk through that door, I would have braced myself. The face that grinned back at me, with dark soulless eyes and a smile that left shivers in even the toughest of men, was deathly familiar.

"Impossible!" I shouted accusingly at the man. "You're supposed to be dead..." I managed to choke out.

"No no no, Sherlock dear, it's _you_ who should be dead! Oh, what an interesting game this turned out to be..." The voice brought back every nightmare I'd ever had since I met him, the all-too-familiar Irish lilt leaving me shaky and slightly nauseous.

_Moriarty._

* * *

***Hands up if you had guessed something like this was going to happen* (You win an Internet brownie for being awesome at guessing story twists) Hehe, and guess what?! That's not even the best twist of the story! You'll find that out in a couple of chapters time, after something really bad happens... Stay tuned more more of this horrifically awful tale that is my fanfic! Reviews from anyone and everyone are appreciated, even if its to tell me you hate the story, although I'd prefer it if you kept hate-mail to a minimum, as I am actually a real person, and do have feelings! (*Gasp!* Who would have guessed?!)**


	29. Split and Shattered

[John]

Three days. Three _bloody_ days. To be completely honest, a part of me had been hoping that Sherlock would have decided he was being childish and come running back to Baker Street by now. Apparently this was a greater deal than I had originally thought. He obviously didn't need me as much as I had needed him. Maybe he had decided after returning that he no longer cared for me in the same way, and had just been waiting for the opportunity to ditch me. Well, if that was the case, he must have been overjoyed. Maybe the whole drug thing was a rouse, and he just wanted me gone. To be honest though, it didn't seem like the kind of thing he'd pull, being a self-proclaimed sociopath, he could tell anyone and everyone exactly how he felt about them without being conscious of their feelings. I knew, I had seen him hurt many in that way before. It was no wonder that I was the first proper friend he'd had.

I wished that I knew exactly what was going on in that gigantic brain of his, but I was no Sherlock Holmes. I was John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, army doctor and loyal sidekick to the world's only Consulting Detective. I wouldn't even try to deny that I wasn't seen as the sidekick by the public, after all, Sherlock was the tall and intelligent hero with the perfect hair and cheekbones, and I was John Watson, the slightly short and uninteresting blogger. Nothing special there.

A gentle knocking at the door, accompanied by Lestrade's muffled shout found its way into my thoughts, and I considered whether I could be bothered to get up. I didn't really feel like talking today, as it had only really just hit me that I might never live with Sherlock again. The man had been a permanent fixture in my life before the fall, and when we had rejoined each other's company I had all too easily settled back into the routine.

Sighing, I got up and let Lestrade in, hoping that a quick cup of tea and very short answers to his questions would drive him away. Apparently I had run out of luck years ago, and it hadn't returned, as he declined the tea and asked for a beer instead. I fetched him one, and slowly made myself a tea so that I could postpone conversation for as long as possible.

He had visited me three times since I had returned to Baker Street, and I really couldn't tell why he was bothering. I mean, it wasn't like I could just ask him. The DI had ignored my minimal participation in the conversation and chatted away happily, telling me about various cases at his work with as much enthusiasm as Sherlock would undoubtedly have had. Why did all my thoughts always return to him? Why was my life centred around one man, who barely showed any affections, and insulted me almost every minute of the day?

"John? Are you even listening?" Lestrade's tone was filled with mock-anger, and he held a smile on his face, but I could see the concern in his eyes. I wanted to tell him everything, but I just couldn't. He wouldn't understand.

"I'm fine. Just a bit tired." I said instead. I thought he would nod and just continue with his story, but surprisingly he didn't.

"I didn't ask if you were fine, John. Which leads me to believe that you aren't in fact 'fine' at all. Talk to me, I can help!" He said, and for a second I was going to admit everything, my worries about Sherlock, the possibility of both of us being mentally unstable, all of it. However, just when I opened my mouth, something in my brain just snapped, and I was filled with uncontrollable rage.

"You can't help me!" I growled at him, and part of me was shocked at this sudden change. "Everyone thinks that they can help, that they know what I'm going through, but they _don't_! Why can't you understand that?!" The same part of me that had been shocked was now also horrified. Why was I treating Lestrade like this? He had only been trying to help! I felt trapped inside my own mind, unable to stop the angry words that were pouring out of my mouth. Lestrade seemed unable to believe what I was saying either, as his jaw had gone slack in confusion, and I could see him trying to figure out where this change had come from.

"I was just offering my support, John! You don't need to use it!" He was being defensive now, and I desperately wanted to tell him how much I appreciated his offer, but it seemed that wasn't going to happen.

"How could you possibly expect to be able to provide support, Greg? You can barely deal with your own problems! Maybe that's why your wife kept cheating on you..." Something was definitely wrong. I would _never_ bring anything like that into an argument, no matter what. I was growing more and more worried by the second.

Greg gaped at me, and I could feel my lips move into a smirk. "That was an awful thing to say, John! While I can understand that you have problems, so do the rest of us, as you've just pointed out! You don't need to be such an asshole, you're beginning to sound like Sherlock!"

What happened next took both of us completely by surprise. I lunged at Lestrade, grabbing him and tackling him to the ground, screeching at the top of my lungs, "How dare you bring him into this?! How dare you?!"

He rolled on the floor, trying desperately to shove me off him, but I had him pinned down. The man tried to plead with me, but the part of me that was in control wasn't listening to his pleas. That's when it got worse.

I could feel my hand curl into a fist, but I only realised where I was heading once I had brought it back. Mentally, I was screaming in horror and self-loathing, but on the outside I was grinning in pleasure as I brought my hand down hard right onto my friend's face. The impact knocked the air out of him, and the poor man lay there for a few seconds, stunned out of his mind from what had just happened.

"Greg..." I managed to whisper as I gained control for a matter of seconds. He must have recognised that something was going on, as he used that moment to push me off him and start scrambling to his feet. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't keep control, and I felt anger bubble inside me as I, too, rose to my feet. We stood like that for a few moments, drinking in the sight of each other. I could see the fear in Lestrade's eyes, and I wanted to tell him to run, as fast as he could, but I knew that even if I asked him to go, he wouldn't leave. I was a danger to the public, if I was open to the idea of attacking a friend, who knew what I'd do to a stranger?

"John... Please, stop this. Let me call someone to come over, let me get you some help. If I have to call Mycroft, I will. Hell, if I have to drag _Sherlock_ over here-" he continued with his fearful ramblings, but I stopped listening. My heart stopped in cold fear, and if I had been in control, I'm certain I would have been shaking. Well, if I was in control, my hand certainly wouldn't have been reaching for the gun in the back of my trousers.

_No. God, no. Not Lestrade. Please. He's my friend. I don't want to hurt him._

It was no use.

My hand closed around the gun. Lestrade didn't notice, he was too busy trying to convince me to let him help. Every part of me that still had morals was trying to stop the movement of my arm, but there was nothing I could do as the gun found its way to my front, and I clicked the safety off.

Lestrade caught sight of the gun pointed at him and finally seemed to realise that all was lost, and he stopped trying to reason with me. Fear was replaced with a cold acceptance of his fate, and he even went so far as to close his eyes.

My arm shook, but not enough that there was a chance I could miss. The gun was perfectly in line with the DI's heart. My mental screams were amounting to nothing.

I attempted to reason with my own mind, filling it with happy memories of conversations with Greg, drinks at the pub and movie nights. Still, my hand barely wavered, and my fingers clicked the safety off. I gave it one last shot as I pulled the trigger, thinking about how upset Sherlock would be if I killed Greg. Then the gun fired.

I shut my own eyes, tears falling down my cheeks as the sound echoed in the small room. I heard a cry of pain from Lestrade, and a thump, then nothing. I cried out, feeling sick at what I'd just done.

Monster. Psychopath. Insane.

The list was endless.

I didn't want to open my eyes, in fact, it took me at least a minute before I found the strength to do so. I pried them open, certain I would find blood stains on all the walls, and a gaping hole where his chest had been.

However, his chest was not red. I crawled next to him where he lay, unconscious, and gasped. The bullet had hit him, but only in the leg. He was alive. There was a cut on his head from where he'd hit it during his fall, but that seemed to be the only reason he was unconscious.

He. Was. _Alive._

However, that was when what had just happened finally sunk in. It was too much for me, and I curled into a ball, rocking myself slowly as I tried to comprehend what I had just done. There was no question now that I was insane, and, therefore, a danger to the public, and more importantly, to my colleagues and friends. Friends such as Sherlock. If I had been so ready to hurt, and even _kill_ Lestrade, what would I be inclined to do in _Sherlock's_ presence? I didn't even want to think about it.

A small voice whispered in the back of my mind that I was too dangerous to be left alive. It told me that if I ran away, Sherlock would find me, and I might hurt, or even, _kill_ him.

The thought actually made me retch, and I realised that there was only one thing I could do. I had planned for it weeks ago, but when things had seemed brighter I'd chosen to forget about it. Now, though, I couldn't put it off. To keep my friends safe, I would do it. I was ready.

_Ready to die._

* * *

**Gaaah, what did you think?! Surely, you think, it can't get any worse? Well, that is where you are wrong! It can only get worse, and I can guarantee it will. Happy stories are not my forte, if you haven't figured that out already. Now, the next chapter will explain everything you have been questioning throughout the story, and if you do have any questions you definitely want answered please post them in a review, and I will make sure to include an explanation! Anyway, reader beware, feels abound. Please review, it makes me happy. If you don't review, it makes me angry, and you won't like me when I'm angry. Don't forget that these characters are all under my influence...**

By the way, what I described John as before, I didn't mean that was how I felt about him (I love John, he's my baby, and Martin is just so sassy it's unreal) so don't get the wrong idea! I'm pretty sure that's how he would describe himself, but I think we all know he is so much more than a sidekick. He's Sherlock's best and only real friend, and the most loyal person ever. That's one thing I think we can all agree on.

Oh, and in case you haven't yet realised, I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters. Although, I have been compared to Moffat by many. I have to say, I don't entirely disagree.

Sherdocwho told me she was going to get out her chocolate and stuffed animals. I think that is some good advice, especially for the next few chapters. Follow that advice.


	30. A Twist in Fate

**Here it is- the chapter that will explain everything. Hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review!**

* * *

[Sherlock]

Well, this was an unexpected turn-up. And by unexpected, I meant horrifying and slightly nauseating. Moriarty was still grinning at me from the doorway, and he looked rather different from when I had last seen him. They were minor differences, ones a normal person would ignore completely, and that's why they stood out so much to me. His hair was ruffled and he had a slight stubble on his cheeks. Not caring as much for his appearance, then. He must have had a hard time after his "death". The suit he wore was still designer, but there were obvious creases, showing that he didn't care enough about it any more to have it treated specially. He almost seemed like a new man, but I didn't think this was a particularly good thing. Probably the most worrisome difference was in his eyes. There were black circles underneath, which suggested he didn't sleep much anymore, and though they were still dark and calculating, there was also a hint of complete insanity that I was certain had not been so prominent before. I got all that from barely a few seconds of concentration, leading me to believe that Jim Moriarty no longer cared for his own welfare. He was only back for the game, which obviously had not ended in his thoughts.

"I watched you die..." I said, and managed to keep my voice even, which was no small feat considering what I was feeling inside. Moriarty rolled his eyes at the question.

"Oh, come on now! How hard is it to fake your death? Apparently anyone can do it, as you have just effectively demonstrated. Really, I thought you'd have been less surprised to see me back, I mean, a gun with fake bullets isn't that difficult to acquire, is it? I needed to be sure that your heart was effectively _burned_ before I could end our game, and from the looks of it, that hasn't happened yet. So you get me for a little while longer. Isn't that great?" His face was lit up in an expression of childish glee that made me sick to look at.

"Why don't you just get it over with, then? You've been around long enough, no one tracking you, why have you waited this long to do anything?" I asked, genuinely confused. He didn't seem like the patient sort of person.

This was apparently a hilariously stupid question, for Jim burst out into an uncontrollable fit of giggles that left me very worried indeed, and it turned out I had a reason to be.

"You- you think I haven't done anything?! That I just wasted three years?! No, no, no! That's a very idiotic conclusion, Sherlock, and I didn't think you were an idiot at all!" He continued with his laughing, a smirk sitting proudly on his pale face.

"Well?" I prompted eventually, unable to stand the suspense and annoying chuckles any longer.

"Well, firstly, did you enjoy that little trip in the forest a few nights ago? It seemed you were a little confused, and very wet by the end of it!"

I gasped in realisation. "That was _you_? I cried, succeeding in extracting a nod from Moriarty, who then proceeded to launch into a detailed explanation of how he'd placed the drug into the tea before it was delivered.

"That still doesn't explain why I found no trace of it?" I asked solemnly, fully believing that that was the worst thing he had done. How wrong I was.

"Oh, Sherlock! How many times do I have to explain it to you? When you're in my position, getting hold of anything you could ever desire is _easy_, for example, an untraceable drug, that can easily be put into any kind of beverage! Silly, silly, next question..." He was still laughing, and the effort was shaking his body.

"Well, what now?" I asked, "What will you do now that you've got me here?"

"I'll burn the heart out of you, easy! I've found your weakness, tested how far you'd go with that fall of yours, and now I'm gonna break you."

"How so? What weakness?"

He smiled darkly at me for a few seconds before he answered. "John. He's your weakness."

My breath caught in my throat, and I felt myself shaking in anger. "Leave. Him. Out. Of. This! The game, it's between you and me. He doesn't need to be involved."

More laughter on Moriarty's part. It was really starting to aggravate me now. "He's been involved for a while now, Sherlock. In fact, all while you've been gone, he's been involved, and I've been preparing him."

This was not the answer I'd been expecting, and I really didn't know what he meant by it. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer, but it seemed he wasn't going to let me go until I'd heard everything.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked him, and my voice sounded small even to my own ears.

There was no laughter now, just malice and glee and insanity. He knew that what he was about to say would be a huge blow to me, and he was certainly going to savour the moment.

"Poor little Johnny, after your death he went right off the deep end, completely mad he was. But, you know what's really quite strange?" My eyes were glued to his face, watching his smile grow wider and wider with every word. "Well, he was fine during the few days before the funeral, then he just sort of, _snapped_, while at your grave. Tea, ghastly stuff, it changes people, and you would certainly know that!"

It didn't sink in at first, what he was implying. Oh, but then it did. And then, I couldn't quite believe it, and I didn't know how to react, what to do, what to say. Because nothing, not even my worst nightmares had prepared me for this. I should have seen it coming, I should have _known_.

"No," I whispered, and I somehow found myself on my knees, blinking back tears of grief and horror.

Moriarty knelt in front of me, still smiling, but now it was a cold smile. "Yes." He said, "All it took was a cup of tea. Its a new kind of drug, AT5 it's called. Very useful in my work. And it worked just so well on your pet, didn't it? Once a week, in his lovely cup of hot tea, and he didn't even realise. I just stood back and watched as he fell apart. Well, when you returned, I stopped. Let him think he was recovering, and then, BAM! You were hit with the same thing. Same symptoms, and, just as I had predicted, the poor man thought he was somehow influencing you!"

I gagged, it was all too much. The thought, it was just too awful. John, poor John, there hasn't been anything wrong with him at all. It was all Moriarty's doing. That bastard.

"You're a monster, a psychopath... You're _insane_..." I managed to choke out in his general direction, as I refused to look into his eyes and see the triumph I was sure would be present.

"It took you this long to figure it out? I'm certainly not impressed with you. All this talk about you being a genius, and you couldn't even deduce my plans! How disappointing..." The criminal shook his head in mock annoyance.

"Congrats. You've won, you beat me. Now leave us _alone_." I didn't want to engage him any further, but I wanted him to go so that I could have a private moment to let out all my emotion, and I knew I'd regret it if I tried to fight him. No doubt there would be guards nearby to break up a confrontation, and I had to find John.

"_Leave_? But I'm not done with you yet!" I froze, surely there couldn't be another catch, could there? He'd won, hadn't he?

"Your heart is still intact, Sherlock! And I never leave a job unfinished..." That evil grin was back on his face, and impossibly his eyes seemed even darker and more soulless than I had ever seen them. It wasn't hard to guess what he meant.

"Where's John?" I screamed at him, no longer caring about restraining my anger. "I swear, if you've hurt him..."

"Me? I haven't touched him!" Moriarty gave me a look of mock-outrage that I really wanted to punch off his smug face, but couldn't find the strength. "Although, if I were you, I'd hurry to get to him. He's out of his mind, and that poor police man that you like, what was his name? Oh! Lestrade, that was it, yeah, he got the worst of it. Silly man, John still had his gun down his trousers, and a cup of tea in his hand... I think you can guess what happened next!"

I couldn't take another word, it was all too much, but I had the feeling Moriarty wasn't finished. I was right.

"Where is John now?" I didn't want to ask, as I could guess where he'd gone, but it still came as a hard blow when Moriarty said the words.

"He's on top of St. Barts. And if hurry if I were you," the sick, twisted man leaned in for the maximum effect when the words rolled off his tongue,

_"He's about to jump."_

* * *

**Need I say anything else? Please tell me that this was completely unexpected, it will make my day! I will be happy if even one of you tells me that this was the biggest plot twist you could have imagined for this story! (It's alright if it isn't, but I'd still appreciate a review telling me that I was too obvious) I'm sure you can guess what the next chapter will be about. It's been an honour to have such faithful reviewers such as yourselves, and I would like to thank all 97 of you for sticking with me this far. Really, it's been a pleasure.**

Hopefully I will see you tomorrow, but considering I'll be in San Francisco you might have to forgive me if I post later than normal!

I hope this is a satisfying chapter. It was certainly thrilling to write.


	31. What Begins Must Always End

**Hooray I'm updating from San Francisco! Just a warning for a bit of naughty language from Sherlock in the middle of this chapter. Oh, and don't forget your pillow. It'll muffle the screaming and crying.  
**  
[John]

Now that I was up here, it seemed like an awfully long way to the ground. Not that another option was available, and at least this way would be quick if I aimed myself correctly. I had to remind myself that this was all to keep Sherlock safe, otherwise I never would have been able to climb onto the ledge at all. I wished so much that I could see him one last time, but knew it was probably for the best he didn't know. After all, I was mostly certain he'd only try to talk me down, although that completely depended on whether he was still pissed off with me from three days ago. I still didn't quite know why he had acted as he did, what reason he held, but it certainly hadn't helped the situation. The question held- would I have shot Lestrade if I was still at Mycroft's house with Sherlock? The answer, unfortunately, was probably not.

I didn't feel like having a montage of images and memories of my life, as the only interesting ones contained Sherlock, and I didn't know if I'd be able to face him, even as a figment of my imagination. Therefore, I stepped closer to the edge, preparing to jump, to just get it over with, no second thoughts. But I couldn't do it. Sherlock's disappointed face flashed across my mind, and I broke concentration for only a second. However, a second was enough, and I felt myself verge on a panic attack from what I was about to do. I had no choice but to take a step back. Fully shaking now, and with tears rolling down my face, I moaned in frustration and grief. How could I have let it go on for so long? Why hadn't I let go when I wasn't so close to Sherlock, back before I'd returned to him? It would have been so much simpler, for everyone. The answer, of course, was that I'd been scared of death, of no longer existing, and had held on to the hope that I would get better with Sherlock's guidance and support. It had been a stupid hope, one that was doomed to fail before it even began.

Really, I should have ended my life with the gun as soon as it had become clear I'd hurt Lestrade, but, again, I had been scared, confused, and I obviously hadn't been thinking clearly. Instead, I had taken a taxi to St Bart's, and had sneaked up to the roof. Now, on the ledge, I wasn't exactly having second thoughts, but I wasn't so eager to end my life. I knew it was the right thing to do, and I would eventually come round to the idea, but in that moment I was just trying to savour every little detail of being alive.

_Dammit_, I thought, suddenly realising that my procrastination was putting countless lives in danger. Lestrade could already have woken, and worked out where I'd gone. The police would be here soon, and if I wasn't dead by then, I would continue to be a danger to everyone, even Sherlock, and I never wanted to be a danger to him.

With that in mind, I shut out every thought except the image of Sherlock, which I kept firmly in my vision to memorise. I wanted to see his face, so that I would continue to convince myself what I was doing was right, even as gravity pulled me to the ground far below. I pictured him with one of his rare smiles, one he had saved especially for me. I smiled back in return, and returned to the very edge of the building, closing my eyes in a sense of finality. I would have loved to have had a moment with Sherlock, to tell him how much he meant to me, and how I had appreciated everything he'd done for me, all the adventures we'd shared.

Most importantly, I would tell him that, even knowing what the consequences would be, I would do it all over again, exactly the same.

That thought gave me the strength to pitch my weight forward, and I spread my arms in surrender of my fate. However, just as I began to fall, I heard a voice, calling me from behind. Screaming at me to stop.

"Please, John! Stop! Just stop! Please..."

On some unconscious level, I recognised that it was Sherlock and thrust a foot forward to stop my descent, before the rest of me had even processed what was being said. I stood still, unsure what to do. If I turned, all would be lost, of that I was certain. Sherlock would convince me to get off the roof and return with him, where he would undoubtedly suffer a similar fate to either Lestrade, or even Mrs Hudson. But I couldn't just jump now. I had to make him understand, to realise that I wasn't doing this for any other reason than to protect him. I was being given a chance to say goodbye, and I wasn't going to waste it.

"Stay there, Sherlock." I said, my voice catching slightly on his name. Why were goodbyes always so hard?

"You dont have to do this. Please, don't do this."

I sighed, and finally turned to see him. "Yes, yes I do. You know that."

"Please, just listen! There's something-"

I interrupted him, as I didn't really want to hear one of his famous arguments, not now. "I can't cope anymore. I'm ashamed of what I did. I can't even look myself in the eye, let alone you. And I need to keep you safe from the same fate."

"You're making a mistake!" Sherlock sounded really desperate right then, and I realised in that moment that whatever I chose would hurt him, whether it was physically or mentally.

"Another one? Well, I do seem to have had some rather poor ideas in the past... Well, I have time to make one more. I haven't figured out if this is a mistake yet. You'll get hurt either way, and for that I'm sorry." Tears filled my eyes, but I blinked them back.

"John! Just wait for one fucking second!" He was collapsing before my very eyes, and I knew I needed to make this much quicker.

"Do you believe in an afterlife?" That stopped him in his tracks, and he looked at me in confusion. "I haven't really thought about it much before now, but, standing here, it makes me hope that there's a heaven and hell, so I know at least Mrs Hudson could be happy in heaven and I would be able to pay for my sins in hell. Does that sound like a fair deal?"

He stared at me, and I could almost see the cogs turning in his brain, trying to come up with something to get me off the ledge. Finally, he replied.

"Don't make me follow you off that ledge. I've done it once, and you know I'll do it again." The bastard.

"Don't you dare! Don't you bloody dare Sherlock Holmes! You are an amazing, spectacular wonderful person and I won't let you throw your life away for me. You can be so much more." I was breathing heavily now, and I wanted so much to get him away from any thoughts like that. I wouldn't jump until I was certain he wouldn't follow me.

"Would you just shut the fuck up and listen to me for one bloody minute John Hamish Watson?!" I had never heard him sound so desperate and furious at the same time, and the power in his voice shut me up immediately, and I gave him my full attention.

"Thank you," he sounded exhausted, but pleased and relieved that I'd listened to him. "Moriarty has been drugging you this whole time. Ever since the funeral, he had been putting untraceable drugs in your tea. The same one he gave me three days ago. It was never you, John. He's playing you, trying to make you kill yourself so that he can finally break me, so he can tell everyone that he burned the heart out of me. That was his plan all along, and you were my weakness. So, please, just get off the ledge, and come over here."

I could barely believe what he was saying. Part of me didn't want to, thinking that he was just trying to stop me from killing myself. However, thinking about it, all of it tied in too well. Yes, I had only lost my sanity after Sherlock's funeral, not before. I was always worse after a cup of tea. I hadn't had tea with Sherlock once he'd returned, too busy, and I'd recovered. I had only hurt Lestrade after tea. Could it all be true? It seemed too good to be true.

"Please..." He repeated, and after a small hesitation, I nodded. Slowly, so very slowly, I climbed down from the ledge, and I felt my hands shaking as I gripped the ledge with both hands. Once I was certain I was alright, and wasn't going to fall over from lightheadedness, I stood and turned towards my flatmate, who was grinning wildly. I started laughing, which I was sure was completely inappropriate, but Sherlock soon joined in and we giggled together. We must have been high off the adrenaline.

Then, I became serious again. I took a step towards him, nearly falling, but I stayed upright. I took another, and another, and soon I was running towards him, desperate to hold onto him, to use him as my anchor to the world. I needed to feel him, to know we were both alive, both alright, and I couldn't wait the length of time it would take me to walk.

He was grinning, and I was grinning, and his arms were opening, ready to hold me, and I was getting closer and-

Something was wrong. Sherlock wasn't grinning anymore, and I didn't feel right. I stopped, no more than five meters away from him. He still had his arms open, waiting for me, but I couldn't go to them. My vision was blurring at the edges, and there were lots of things that didn't make sense to me. For one, Sherlock was screaming at me, and though I couldn't make out what he was saying, I could see the tears glistening on his cheeks. I wanted to ask why he was crying, he looked as though he'd been hurt, and I didn't like the idea of that.

There was one other thing that didn't make sense to me. When I looked down, part of my chest was missing, right beside my heart. Bright red was cascading from the hole, and I felt sad because I had liked the shirt I was wearing, but now it was ruined.

Somehow, I was then suddenly unable to stand, which was weird, and Sherlock was kneeling beside me, screaming to stay with him. I tried to tell him that I wasn't going anywhere, but my mouth wasn't working properly. Why wasn't it working? I couldn't even tell him how much he meant to me, and my vision was going. I wouldn't be able to see his face soon, as I was feeling a bit sleepy, so I wanted to take a nap. I didn't worry too much, I would be able to tell him what a great friend he was when I woke up.

I grinned at him, at his wonderful, amazing face and glorious cheekbones and, with one last deep breath, closed my eyes.

* * *

I **am actually crying now. Thank you so much, John Watson, for making me cry. That's just great, I'm crying on an plane, and people are looking at me like I'm crazy. **

**I feel this is the best I could have done in the situation. It is a happy ending, because John and Sherlock are finally both in the same place, and they know it wasn't John's fault that he did the things he did. However, it was also a sad ending because John was so close to being reunited with the person he cares for most in the world. To be truly honest, John living would not have worked, because no matter who was behind his actions, at the end of the day, he killed people, and the whole world saw him. He wouldn't have had any peace. That is my only excuse for why I decided this had to happen. I'm sorry if you don't like it, but I did the best to create an ending which would make both sides happy. **

**If you still feel like it (I won't blame you if you don't) please leave a review. I'm at over 180 now, which is amazing, and completely unexpected! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, and thank you to everyone who is planning to review after reading this chapter. **  
**  
Also, for those of you who care, my Tumblr username has changed to cumberbliss, and if you want to send me anonymous hate (please don't...) I'd recommend you go there.**

Even if you don't like me anymore, I love you guys, and have already started a list to thank you, which will come at the end! There are going to be two more chapters, which may be **posted a few** **days apart, if I even manage to write them while I'm busy in San Francisco, so see you then!**


	32. The Choice to End All Choices

**Hi guys sorry it's been a while! I did warn you that it would be a bit hectic while I was away and I've just been so tired these last few days I haven't been able to write an update! I know some of you guys thought the previous chapter was the ending, but that's not what I meant by it at all! You still have this one, the next one, and maybe an epilogue, not to mention a list of all my lovely reviewers! Next chapter should be up tomorrow or the next day so you won't have to wait as long don't worry!**

[Sherlock]

"Please..." I whispered. There, I had given it my best shot. Either he was coming down off that ledge now, or he was going to jump. If he jumped, I would follow shortly afterwards. I'd told him as much, and I wasn't one for going back on my word.

Just when I thought that everything was indeed lost, he caught my eye and nodded. It took a moment for his action to mean something in my thoughts, but when I finally caught on, I could only grin in happiness. I watched as he climbed down and leaned against the ledge, breathing heavily from the after effects of nearly dying.

John started laughing. Shock will do that to people, I recalled. Then, I started chuckling, too. Apparently I was also in shock. We must have looked rather mad, and more than slightly hysterical, giggling away after John had very nearly thrown his life away for Moriarty's game. That sick bastard would pay once we got down from this damn roof.

John had very suddenly stopped laughing, and I could see how weary he was, even from where I stood in the middle of the roof. He looked at me, and then started to come towards me, getting faster and faster with each step.

I had another moment of emotional insight, and put my arms out in a welcoming gesture. I needed to have contact with John, just so I knew I wasn't dreaming, and that he was really alive.

Closer and closer he came, and I almost felt impatient that he was taking so long. I chuckled at his determination, and I couldn't help but feel overjoyed. Everything would be alright.

Then, my world exploded with the sound of a gun firing.

I didn't need to look down to know that it wasn't me who'd been hit. My face collapsed into an expression first of horror, then overpowering grief as the red stain on John's shirt began to spread. My friend stopped in his tracks, and kept his eyes on my face.

I knew he wasn't going to survive. His eyes told me that. They hadn't even the smallest amount of pain concealed within them, they just looked confused. I heard someone screaming, and it took a few seconds to realise that it was me. By then, I could see the signs that John was about to collapse, and I darted forwards to catch him. I knelt beside him, and the tears were streaming from my eyes, but I didn't care.

"John..." I whispered, over and over again. His lips were moving, but from what I could tell the words were all gibberish. He smiled, and this time I caught exactly what he was trying to tell me.

"See you when I wake up."

Then, he closed his eyes, and shuddered as the breath left his lungs for the last time. Then, he was still, and I was alone. My flatmate, my blogger, my friend, was gone.

I sat back. It was over. John was dead. Well and truly gone from my life, forever.

_This wasn't supposed to happen_.

"John..." I whispered, my voice hoarse. "How could you leave me?"

"It wasn't like he had much of a choice! Poor puppy, he was a loyal pet wasn't he? Shame he had to be put down."

I froze at the voice, but it was the words that really held the meaning. I turned, and although I already knew what I would find, I could not stop the strangled moan that escaped my throat. Moriarty stood with a grin plastered on his face, and next to him was his faithful hired gun, Moran, who had a sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, and a handgun still aimed after firing the fatal shot.

Moriarty began to stalk towards me, Moran close at his heel, and it seemed he hadn't finished hurting me yet. "I told you that I'd burn the heart out of you, Sherlock. You really should have seen this coming! Why would I have let you and Johnny live happily ever after when that doesn't benefit me in the slightest?!" He was watching me for a reaction, but I couldn't give him one. I was numb inside, and in that moment I truly understood what it meant to be an emotionless sociopath. My mind had been unable to cope with the onslaught of emotions, so had blocked them all, it seemed. Jim looked disappointed that I wasn't screaming at him with all the fury I could muster, and a bit unsure what to do. It was obvious that he had expected something to happen, for me to react in some emotional way, to show him how much John's death had distressed me. However, I couldn't bring myself to feel anything in that moment, considering the possibility that once I let the emotions take control, they would tear me apart.

"Well?" Moriarty asked, visibly confused at my lack of response and more than a bit impatient. "I won, I killed John. He's dead, Sherlock, in case you hadn't noticed. So what are you going to do about it?" Moran was also looking considerably unnerved by how I was taking my flatmate's death, but Jim was starting to look outraged, as though I'd personally offended him by my actions. I didn't reply. Instead, I turned back to my friend.

John's body had dropped considerably in temperature, and the blood had stained the entirety of his shirt. I felt the need to note every detail of the moment and store in in my mind palace, somewhere around where my emotions had hidden themselves.

Moriarty finally reached me, and crouched in front of me with a look of annoyed acceptance. Moran stood a few steps behind, not really wanting to get any closer, as he seemed to be comparing me to some kind of caged animal that could kill you or just as easily be your friend.

"Say something, anything! This silent thing you have going on really isn't working for me, and you know Daddy doesn't like being bored. The only person who really cared for you is dead, boo hoo! What a shame! Now, can you get over it already so we can finish our game?" There was a crazed look in those soulless eyes, and I really doubted in that moment that the man in front of me was even part way sane.

"Ugh, I don't even know why I bothered with you..." The criminal stood up, and with a look of disgust and vague disappointment turned back to his faithful sniper, who was smirking at me. "Let's go, Sebby. It seems we broke him too much, he's no fun now." They began to walk away, and even though I considered that they were probably doing it on purpose to invoke a reaction, I had to say something.

"That's it? All this elegant planning and you're leaving it unfinished?" My voice was neutral and my face was blank, but slowly I felt my emotions trickling back into being: confusion, grief, white hot fury.

Jim stopped and turned back to me with a pleased smirk on his face. "Well? What else did you expect? I got what I came for, your heart has been successfully _burned_ my dear Sherlock!"

"Why not just kill me?" I couldn't stop the tremor in my voice, but at that point I couldn't tell whether it was from anger or unshed grief.

He rolled his eyes. "That would defeat the purpose. I wanted your anger, your hate, an unquenchable desire for revenge. A dead man has no feelings, Sherlock, and you would not be a very interesting corpse in that case."

That's when I really became angry. Sadness was drowned out in favour of revenge, and I knew just how to do it. I'd seen the signs. I carefully reached into my pocket where I had stored a gun I had stolen from one of Mycroft's employees, and brought it out. The grip was cool beneath my fingers, and I waited until Moriarty had turned around again before I brought it up and fired. The gun kicked slightly in my hand, but it felt good, especially when the bullet hit its target. Sebastian collapsed with a horrific choking sound escaping his lungs before he lay unmoving on the floor. I felt a surge of triumph when I saw Moriarty's face turn to him in shock and disbelief, then a look that came very close to actual grief, and finally, he turned to me with a look of anger that rivalled my own.

"An eye for an eye," I said, letting the hate fill my voice while I stared at him. He glared back, seemingly unsure what to do, but determined to do something.

"Did it feel good, hmm? Killing a man with his back turned?" Jim's voice took on a rather strange quality to it, and it took me a few seconds to realise he was actually upset that I'd killed his sniper, and he wasn't just putting it on. I considered his question, but I didn't really want to answer him. Truthfully, it had felt good to take revenge, and that wasn't a feeling I particularly liked considering the situation. It reminded me of how John must have felt while under the influence of the drug, only I was fairly certain I was under no such influence. I didn't want to find similarities, but it was difficult not to. Jim seemed to take my hesitation as some form of agreement, and nodded to himself.

"I'm tired, Sherlock. Really fucking tired. I thought coming here and messing you up would help, but you just took away the only thing in my life that might have turned into something good. Not that I didn't do the same to you, but I had expected to win. I expected that you would break down, that you would lose yourself in your grief, and return to a life of drugs and hate. However, you proved me wrong. Congrats. You did it. You should be proud." Moriarty seemed to find himself in a rather peculiar situation at that moment, it looked like he hadn't planned out such a disappointing ending to his little game.

Then he seemed to have a sort of epiphany, and though his eyes were a bit glazed over there was a bit of relief etched into his features, which confused me. I watched cautiously as he knelt beside the body of Moran and whispered something before taking a deep breath.

"We've both got a choice now, Sherlock. I wouldn't take too long to decide, though. Your DI friend is nearly here." He sighed, and gave me a sad smile that looked out of place. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. You were a worthy opponent."

I realised too late what his plan was. I could only watch in horror as he brought the gun that had killed John up to his temple, and before I could even call out, he had pulled the trigger. Blood spurted from the fresh hole, and Jim Moriarty died with a smile on his face.

Then, looking round, I realised that I was the only living person on St. Bart's roof, and I had a choice to make.

Was it time to say goodbye?

* * *

**Hello, yes, one more chapter and maybe an epilogue. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, there were a lot of you so it might take me a while to reply to them, but I want to mention that I have read them all and I appreciate every single one of them! Thanks to the anonymous user too, that was lovely but I don't know whether I deserve that much praise!**

I'll leave you with this, but I won't leave you long, that I can promise. You guys have been amazing so far, and I hope you stay with me right until the end. If you want to be a part of this story forever, leave a review and your name will be on a list at the end for others to read in the future, a permanent feature that will be just as accessible as any other chapter. Go on, you know you want to.


	33. The End of the End

**Sorry it's so late! Oh, and sorry again. You'll see why. **

[Sherlock]

It was rather unreal, and as I sat there, unable to move from the unexpectedness of it all, I realised that I hadn't really been left with a choice at all. There was no question what my decision would ultimately be. To live on when everything that had meant something in my life was gone, or to kill myself and ensure I would not have to go through the grieving process for John after all. Like a normal human being, I had no wish to inflict pain on myself, and living without John would be agony I was certain. I had done that once before for three long years, and the wait had nearly broken me. At least then I had known I would be able to return to John, and still had been able to hope that things would return to normal. Now, there would be no possibility of a happy ending. The only thing that had held meaning in my life was now a cold corpse resting on my knee.

I stared down at John's pale face, and tried to imagine how things could have gone differently. Maybe if I'd realised what was going on sooner I could have prevented it. Even going further back, if I'd double-checked that Moriarty really was dead on that rooftop so many years ago, I wouldn't have been cradling John's lifeless form in my lap at that moment.

The doctor's eyes were glassy in a way that could only mean death, but he looked more peaceful than he had for a long time. I supposed that was my fault, I had thrust him in harm's way when he could have had a much longer, albeit more lonely, life having never met me. However, I knew for a fact that if he had been faced with the choice, there was no question as to what he would have picked. John Hamish Watson needed a life of excitement and adventure, or what was the point in living? I had saved him from the mundane life normal people lived, one I doubted he would have been able to deal with for too long. Really, I don't think he would have had a longer life without me, which was saddening, but made me feel better in a way.

I gently closed his eyes with the tips of my fingers, and let out a choking sound as I did so, trying to hold back the tears and failing miserably. With no one to direct it at, the fury had faded into despair and grief, leaving me with a wet face. I had not cried for a while, the last time being on the roof watching John far below, our situations in this moment nearly opposite from that fateful day. Now he was the one who had died, and I was the one being left behind.

I understood what Moriarty had meant by a choice. To die by my friend's side, or to continue my life without his presence. To take the easy way out, or continue my life without purpose, probably ending up back in the gutter with a cocaine addiction and nothing left to live for. To have come so close to complete happiness, only to have it stripped away, was mentally scarring if not permanently damaging.

With that, I came to a realisation. There really was _nothing_ left for me. After years of struggling through life I had given it my best shot to become a valued member in society, and for a while it had been close to working. Then, John arrived, and for the first time I had someone to call 'friend'. Life had never looked better, and though we had our hardships, nothing could have made the days more worth living. After Moriarty's little game things had taken a turn for the worse, and coming back to a broken John was difficult, but I thought in time we would pull through. It seemed luck was not on my side, demonstrated by the fact I found myself cradling the head of my dead flatmate on the same roof where things had all gone downhill years ago.

Thinking about it, the only one who would be upset was Lestrade, and maybe Mycroft if he wasn't too busy to mourn. Mrs Hudson was dead, and everyone else I had known would be more upset over John's passing than mine. Most of London didn't know about my return, they didn't even need to know I'd come back only to really take my life.

No one was coming for me now. There was no need to let my pain fester, no need to leave a piece of my soul behind in the form of a note. I had done that once before, and look how well it had turned out. There would be no one to read it anyway, apart from those who still believed that I had created the illusion of Moriarty to show off my brilliance. They would read what I wrote and they would interpret it in a way that suited them and their fantasies. Nothing I would write could ever change that.

Quick, painless, sheltered. There was no need for a public display any more. I had fallen to my death before and the experience was clouded with horrible memories. It would certainly not be my first choice. That left the gun.

My fingers reached out to where I knew John's gun would be. I had dropped it after firing the fatal shot that had killed Moran, mostly in shock, but I had not forgotten the sound as it had hit the ground. So different from the sound of the sniper's body colliding with the roof.

My hand finally grasped the cool grip of the handgun, and I brought it up so it was level with my eyes. It didn't seem a very interesting way to die, at my own hand, with no one to see my final expression, but in that moment it was the least of my worries. I had always imagined that I would die young, chasing a criminal, John holding my hand as the light left my eyes for real that time. In my mind, he would have grieved for me for a very long time, but like a solider, would have carried on with his life. Maybe he would have married, a nice young woman, had a few children, and lived a long life. Hopefully he would have thought of me often. Then, one day, when he was very old, he would have closed his eyes peacefully and left the world a happy man.

"That's how it should have gone..." I whispered softy.

With a final glance down at my deceased flatmate, I closed my eyes and with a trembling hand, brought the gun to my forehead. As I squeezed the trigger, I kept an image of John smiling firmly placed where I could see it. His smile was infectious, and I couldn't stop myself from returning it.

That was how they found me a few minutes later. Lying so very, very still, with John's head resting on my legs, and the ghost of a smile continuing to adorn my features from happy memories and the promise of seeing my doctor again very soon.

* * *

**I would like to say a huge thank you to every one of you who has continued with my story after reading the first chapter, and has been sat waiting sometimes for days on end all for an update that would almost assuredly make you cry and curse the day you came across this little website. I have loved hearing every comment, good and bad, that has been posted for this fic, and though this chapter is very late I have finally finished. It's a weird feeling, a sense of freedom not unlike how Sherlock must have been feeling in his last few moments. There is still one more update I have to make, but it will be a list of all my reviewers so that your names are permanently part of this story for future readers, if you have no interest in such a list I would recommend you skip the alert. I have more stories planned for the future, and I hope many of you will continue to read them. I know many of you have followed/favourited me as an author, which is a very pleasant surprise, and I hope that I shan't disappoint you!**

Until next time,

Dangerous Bliss


	34. Isn't that what people do? Leave a note?

**Here we are, every single person who has reviewed this story, including anons and guests. What a long list! I'm proud to be able to write your names here, and so pleased that you felt my story was good enough to leave such lovely and inspiring comments! This will be the last update for this story, though as I mentioned previously this is far from the end of my writing, in fact I have already come up with a few ideas! The next fic I will do will be a gift for the lovely sherdocwho, featuring a hurt/injured Sherlock as per request. If anyone else has any prompts for me please contact me via tumblr and I'm sure we'll be able to work something out! (My URL is cumberbliss) Until then, thank you my lovely readers, and I hope to hear from many of you again in the future. **

The Phantom Of The Labyrinth  
TheTardisOnBakerStreet  
What the Awesome is this  
Raychaell Dionzeros  
Rabbit Paols  
sherdocwho  
thebirds  
Paula (guest)  
Ennui Enigma  
bleachdreamer0  
Jade (guest)  
RawrxSushi  
CuckooWolfie188188  
Ninfea di Luna  
booknerdhere  
moriah93ohio  
Aeriscetra12  
denique  
chisika (guest)  
The timelord hunter at 221  
SydneyNeverExisted  
IceQueenForLife  
Wannabe Detective M  
The Fira  
(Anon Guest)  
nedermg  
vampiregirl1700  
Dreamerfromspace  
TheWhoLockedSupernaturalist  
(Anon Guest 2)  
Nameless (guest)  
SmilesRawesome  
dasoap  
(Anon Guest 3)  
The Forever Young One  
(Anon Guest 4)  
Sherlocked in my Heart  
Amanda Do'Urden  
Young (guest)  
KaiFukugawa  
TheCatInTheShadows  
(Anon Guest 5)  
natalie1668  
t  
Jesus is Boss (guest)  
(Anon Guest 6)  
StArBarD  
ScouterGirl  
Vivi-ntvg  
AglonAuthor  
ImagineThis22  
cheesypuff  
Boens McCoy  
TheTARDISat221B  
keepcalmandjohnlock  
Jamie1229  
EJBRUSH1952  
The Author in the TARDIS  
The Consulting Storyteller  
Pyroclast17  
kelolabosten  
mentallyinsanefangirl13  
Anonymous (guest)  
Ms Gilraen  
Alieri  
(Anon Guest 7)  
all-the-little-words

**And that's it. (Message me if I've forgotten to include you or if I spelt your username wrong and I'll make sure to change it)**

Enjoy being part of this story for as long as it stays on this site, for (hopefully) many to read in the future.

***Good bye!***


End file.
